Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum
by Portrait of a Scribe
Summary: If you want peace, prepare for war. They would have to find that out the hard way before they believed it. M for violence, gore, profanity, and sexual situations. Let the swearing begin. Lemons in chapters 25, 28, 30, 35, 44. Epilogue posted 2010.10.18.
1. 2030 AD Pendleton 1000 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

_"Therefore, he who wishes peace, should prepare war; he who desires victory, should carefully train his soldiers; he who wants favorable results, should fight relying on skill, not on chance."  
__--Publius Flavius Vegetius Renatus_

_**Prologue.**_

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**_2030 A.D. - Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton - 1000 hours_**

Wide, brandy-brown eyes gazed around at the Marines milling about the Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton, located in southern California, with some curiosity and a hint of awe, and a small hand came up to tuck a wayward strand of chocolate-brown hair behind one ear. The little owner of these features, a young girl of about ten years old, wondered briefly what the commotion was about. After all, she had been on base since she was small; she knew all of the normal training procedures and the like.

"Amanda!" called a male voice. Amanda blinked, and turned to face the owner of the voice. He was a young marine with golden-tan skin, close-cropped black hair, dark brown eyes, and the build of a professional wrestler. Anyone else might have been intimidated by the large man; Amanda, however, was very familiar with him, and simply grinned at him before waving.

"Sarge!" she called teasingly with a childish giggle. The man she so jokingly called 'Sarge' rolled his eyes as he came to stand next to the girl.

"Shouldn't you be in school, Amanda?" he asked, his voice as gruff as it always was. Amanda shrugged.

"It's the day after Thanksgiving, Dwayne Casimir Mahonin," she quipped dryly. "I've got the day off, and besides, I wouldn't miss this chance for anything in the world."

"What chance?" Dwayne prompted, ignoring her taunting tone of voice. "The chance to see the base in an uproar?"

"Of course," the ten-year-old said matter-of-factly. "It's not every day I see all these clean-cut, hard-ass Marines run around with their panties in a bunch."

"Don't talk like that," Dwayne scolded half-heartedly.

"Whatever," Amanda drawled. "So, what's going on?"

Dwayne sighed and shrugged before he leaned against a nearby lamppost. "Some accident happened at the Olduvai Research Facility on Mars, so they're scrambling a team together to go up and clean up the mess."

"Oh."

"Goat's going, and so am I."

"Oh. Okay. Will you be back today?"

"Probably," Dwayne replied. "With whatever survivors there might be." He paused. "You know, there's been talk of me joining the RRTS, lately."

Amanda blinked up at her unofficial 'big brother'. "'RRTS'? What's that?" she asked.

"The 'Rapid-Response Tactical Squad'," Dwayne rattled off. "It's a spec-ops group, the cream of the crop."

Amanda smiled, but it was tinged with a little bit of reluctance. "I'm happy for you if you make it in," she said.

Dwayne grinned and ruffled her hair. "Don't worry, I won't leave you alone just like that," he said. "You might have to go back to your mom and dad for the summers and the holidays, but I don't think you'll mind that that much."

Amanda's eyes lit up even as she tried to straighten her mussed brown tresses. "Really?" she asked. "Excellent!"

Dwayne chuckled. "Just keep up your grades, and I think we can probably get something worked out," he said.

"Yeah," Amanda retorted, affecting a pout. "Military schools are tougher than public schools, 'specially for girls!"

"Of course," Dwayne said, "but you'll be all the stronger for it."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Amanda drawled, waving him off. "'That which does not kill us makes us stronger', and all that. I've only heard it a million times. 'Sides, what do I need all that for, anyway? I'm gonna be in the Marines when I grow up!"

Dwayne's eyebrows shot up. "Really, now?" he asked, incredulous.

Amanda's only response was an emphatic nod.

"Which part of the Marines?" Dwayne prompted.

"RRTS," Amanda stated. "But first I'll become a medical specialist in the Navy so's I can put the stinging stuff on all your cuts and bruises."

Dwayne scowled down at her. "You're just a little ray of sunshine, aren't you?" It was more of a statement.

Amanda just grinned, and watched as he stalked away to go do whatever it was he had to do. Then she turned back to her previous activity: watching the Marines run themselves ragged.

**-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own Doom or any of its characters or locations. I only own a copy of the movie and the book (which, by the way, is much better than the movie)._**

_Okay, first Doom story, here. Please don't kill me for using an OC. For anybody who's reading this and is interested, Reaper and Sam will be showing up soon. If anybody cares, that is._

_Hope you like it, and please send me some feedback. It helps me to improve my writing. Flames will be fed to the mutants on Olduvai._

_**-P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	2. 2030 AD Pendleton 1941 Hours

**-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

_"For everything there is a season, And a time for every matter under heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; ...A time to kill, and a time to heal; ...A time for war, and a time for peace."  
__--Ecclesiastes 3:1-8_

_**Chapter 1.**_

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_**2030 A.D. - Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton - 1941 hours**_

Amanda was just going into the mess hall for dinner when she spotted Dwayne walking toward her. She also noticed that he had a little boy and a little girl with him, probably not much older than she was. The boy was tanned with dark brown hair, almost the same color as Amanda's if not a shade lighter, and hazel eyes. The girl, on the other hand, had light, honey-blonde hair, and her pale skin offset her own hazel gaze. They both had wide eyes and full lips. Both of the children, however, looked so sad and sullen that Amanda almost felt her heart break.

However, Amanda grinned through the ache, and waved to Dwayne when she saw him looking over at her.

"Dwayne!" she called cheerfully. "Wanna grab a bite to eat?"

Amanda saw Dwayne glance at the kids, and then he turned to her. "Sure," he said. "Hope you don't mind company."

"Not at all!" Amanda returned. That said, she watched as the big Marine led the two children over to where she was standing. Amanda smiled at the pair, trying to make them feel welcome.

"Hi!" Amanda said. "My name's Amanda Halley. You can just call me Amanda."

The pair were silent, looking forlorn and huddling together like they only had each other.

'These are Samantha and John Grimm," Dwayne supplied when he saw that they weren't going to answer. "They're going to be staying on base for a while."

Amanda smirked wryly at them. "I'm sure we'll all become the best of friends, then," she drawled. "At least, that's what I'm supposed to say. You might not like me, though. I tend to swear a lot, and a bunch of people've told me I'm insensitive and cynical."

"Even though you _shouldn't_ swear," Dwayne growled. Amanda shrugged nonchalantly.

"Well, whaddaya 'spect?" she quipped, putting her hands on her hips and looking up at the Marine with a raised eyebrow. "I live around Marines, so I'm going to adopt some of their habits."

She paused. "At least, that's what Simmons always says."

"Awfully smart-sounding for a shrimp," Dwayne muttered as Amanda led the way into the mess hall. She turned so that she was walking backwards, and glowered at him.

"I'm not a shrimp!" she protested. "You're just a big fucking _giant!_"

"Amanda Blair Halley!" exclaimed a female voice from behind her. Amanda flinched, and Dwayne smirked at her.

"Tex," Amanda greeted, laughing sheepishly as she turned around and tucked her hands behind her back. "What're you doing here?"

"I cannot _believe_ that a ten-year-old would use such language!" Tex scolded. She angrily brushed a strand of auburn hair out of her flashing, ice-blue eyes. Amanda gulped as her 'big sister' scowled down at her.

"But _Tex_," Amanda whined.

"No 'buts', young lady!" Tex growled. Her eyes flashed. "I don't want to ever hear you say something that foul again until after you've proven yourself worthy of such language! Now go eat your dinner!"

Amanda scowled, but did as she was told, while behind her Dwayne just snickered at her expense. Samantha and John were just as quiet and solemn as before.

Amanda sighed as she stepped into one of the food lines that ran around the mess hall, this one on the right-hand side of the doors.

_Why'd Tex have to be so mean?_ Amanda fumed. She ignored Dwayne's continuing chuckles as he slid into line just behind her. _It must be that time of the month, or something._

"You totally got owned, Amanda," Dwayne sniggered. Amanda snarled and whirled on him, her fist flying out to catch him in the side. He grunted, but continued to chuckle, unfazed by the blow.

"Shut up, numbnuts!" Amanda hissed. Dwayne scowled dirtily at her for the slight. "You're scared of Tex, too!"

He gave her an odd look, which was echoed by the Grimm kids. "_Everybody's_ scared of Tex, Amanda."

"Yeah," she stated, "so you have no right to tease me."

Dwayne shook his head. "I'll never understand your train of logic," he mumbled.

"All the better," Amanda groused, and then shivered slightly. "That Sheila Burns Church is the scariest teach around!"

"Better kiss some ass in homeroom tomorrow, then," Dwayne pointed out. Amanda huffed as she finally reached the food counter and took a tray.

"I don't kiss nobody's ass!" she crowed proudly. "I'm not a suck-up! Everything I get, I earn!"

Dwayne raised an eyebrow at her, taking his own tray and following her through the line after making sure that Samantha and John had gotten trays of their own.

"Including the food you're going to be eating?" he pressed. Amanda paused, and then nodded with a scowl at him.

"I help make it, you know," she told him. "I come in here and help the cooks." She paused, and then coughed. Sotto, she added, "Usually it's after I mouth off to somebody." Then, suddenly, she turned to the Marine behind the counter. "Simmons? Did you cut your finger again?"

The Marine in question glanced down at his bandaged hand, and then gave Amanda a tight smile. "Yeah, I seem to be pretty clumsy, huh?"

Amanda grinned at the young man with the mousy brown hair and muddy brown eyes. "That's okay," she said. "Just slow down when you're peeling the potatoes, next time, and you'll be fine."

Simmons chuckled at the inside joke, and then ladled a dollop of mashed potatoes onto Amanda's tray. "Have a good dinner, Amanda."

"You, too, Sims," Amanda returned. Then she moved on, missing the glances that were exchanged between the Grimm children.

By the time they got through the food line, Amanda had joked and chatted with no less than six Marines, and had a plate piled high with potatoes, carrots, chicken, turkey, roast beef, and green beans. Most of it, she knew, was left over from the Thanksgiving dinner that the base had had the night before.

Sitting down at a table, Amanda waited until Dwayne, John, and Samantha sat down next to and across from her. Then she looked expectantly at Dwayne. He caught the look and sighed.

"Can't we just skip it this once?" he asked. Amanda scowled at him and shook her head. Dwayne rolled his eyes, but then bowed his head and folded his hands. Amanda did the same, as did the Grimm kids after a moment.

"Thank you, God, for your love, and thank you also for the grub," Amanda prayed, closing her eyes. Then she softly recited the Lord's Prayer under her breath.

Amanda opened her eyes a moment later and dried them on her sleeve, and then she tucked into her food. It was a few minutes before she noticed John staring at her.

"Wut?" she asked thickly around a mouth full of potatoes.

"Why were you crying?" he asked sofly. Amanda blinked.

"It's a beautiful prayer," she explained, as though it was obvious. "Aside from Psalm 23, it's my favorite."

"Her family's Lutheran," Dwayne interjected. "They live back in Missouri." He took a stab at a piece of turkey. "Half her favorite songs are hymns, and the other half are hard rock and mother-cussing metal."

Amanda scowled at him. "That's not true!" she objected. "I happen to have a very wide range of musical tastes!"

"Name four genres that you really like," Dwayne challenged with a raised eyebrow. Amanda caught Samantha and John looking at her expectantly.

"Soft rock, pop, new age, soundtracks, hard rock, folk, alternative, and Elvis," Amanda rattled off, taking another bite of mashed potatoes. Dwayne stared at her in open incredulity.

"'Elvis' isn't a genre!" he pointed out.

"Of course it is," Amanda replied, frowning at him. "He's awesome, and you know it!"

"Elvis is dead," Samantha murmured. Amanda shook her head, and looked at the blonde girl with a grin.

"Elvis isn't dead," she said, and then continued the quote with, "he just went home."

Dwayne, sitting to her left, groaned and covered his face with one hand.

"God, please smite me now," he pleaded, looking up towards the ceiling. Amanda grinned and chortled maniacally.

"My work here is done," she proclaimed. Then she happily went back to her food.

**-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own Doom or any of its characters or locations. I only own a copy of the movie and the book (which is much better than the movie, by the way)._**

_A cookie goes to the person who can name the references in this chapter. (wink, wink, nudge, nudge.)_

_Okay, just so you know, I'm not trying to preach, here. Amanda is a Christian girl, was raised Christian, and will be Christian throughout this fic. I'll try to not make that big a deal of it, but I thought that it would be fair to warn you that, since the majority of this fic is from her point of view, she will be praying periodically, and there will be some very non-Atheistic content here, if that makes sense to you. If you're offended by such things, then I pity you._

_I made Amanda rather mature, I thought, but I figured that since she's practically growing up on a Marine base, she's bound to be exposed to some things that most "normal" kids wouldn't be exposed to. I, myself, had a pretty sheltered childhood. Not that that's a bad thing, but even I was always mature for my age. Then again, I'm generally considered to be "abnormal"._

_Again, that's not a bad thing._

_Oh, and if you notice any formatting abnormalities, I blame it on the Document Manager here. It's being a total bitch to me._

_Anyway, thank you so much to the one person who reviewed the last chapter: **EnigmaticPseudonym.** Your support means a lot to me!_

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	3. 2030 AD Pendleton 2100 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

_"Cast me gently into morning, for the night has been unkind."  
--Sarah McLachlan, 'Answer'_

_**Chapter 2.**_

* * *

_**2030 A.D. - Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton - 2100 hours**_

Amanda grumbled viciously as she got out of her bunk in her dorm, grabbed her mp3 player and headphones, and stalked out toward the common room. One of the other students in the school barracks was groaning in his sleep; Amanda suspected that he was mentally masturbating, but she never mentioned it to anybody. They would just look at her funny and ask her how she knew that word.

"I _live_ on a base full of fucking _Marines!_" she hissed to herself. "Whadda they expect me to pick up? _Manners_?"

She cut herself off, though, when she finally flopped down on a couch and sighed as she put one headphone in her left ear and turned on her music. She kept the volume down so that if anyone walked in she could hear them, and curled up, resting her head on the left arm of the hard couch. A lot of people called her weird for being able to sleep in such a position on a relatively hard surface, but Amanda just shrugged them off; she had always been able to do such things with little consequence.

A half-hour passed, and then an hour. Amanda had just begun to drift off while listening to Within Temptation's _Our Farewell_ when she heard the door to the dorms creak open. Amanda held still, trying to shrink into the couch and go unnoticed. A second later, a fair-haired girl dressed in military-issue white pajamas rounded the couch and tucked herself into the only cushy seat in the room.

It was Samantha Grimm.

Amanda blinked when she saw the other girl pull her knees up to her chest and bury her face in them, her thin shoulders trembling faintly.

A second later, the dorm door opened and closed again, and dark-haired John Grimm crossed over to sit on the loveseat next to his sister. He, too, was wearing the white scrubs. Amanda didn't like the way the clothes leeched the color from either of them; it made the pair seem like they were ill, and made them look tiny and frail. Though, with the way they looked so haggard at the moment, Amanda wouldn't have been surprised if she was told that they'd been quarantined for a month with chicken pox.

"Sam?" he asked quietly.

"I can't believe they're gone, John," Samantha said. Amanda was surprised to hear that the other girl was crying. Amanda quieted her breathing, deciding to listen in on their conversation.

"It's my fault," John whispered, voice choked with tears.

"No it's not!" Samantha sobbed. "Mom and dad are dead 'cause of that tunnel, not you!"

Amanda blanched, realizing suddenly why the pair had been so subdued all through the day and the evening.

"I just want them back!" Samantha whimpered. Amanda watched silently as John curled up next to his sister, wrapping his arms around her, his face unnaturally drawn and serious. Feeling rather sad for them, Amanda slowly took her headphone out of her ear and turned off her music, slowly sitting up.

They did not notice her as she pocketed the device and got up. It was only when she leaned over them and wrapped her arms around their shoulders that they found out that she was there, jumping in her grip and looking up at her with two pairs of wide, scared eyes. Amanda stared back at them sadly, and then gave them a gentle squeeze.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to them. She truly meant it, too.

The watery hazel gazes stared up at Amanda for a few moments. Then Samantha broke down again. Her tears started John sniffling again. Amanda sat down on the edge of the remaining loveseat cushion and rubbed their backs.

"Let it out," she murmured soothingly. "Just let it out."

It took a while, but the Grimm kids eventually calmed enough for rational conversation. When they reached that point, Amanda ran her hands up and down their backs one more time and then perched herself on the edge of the loveseat.

"So," John started after clearing his throat. "Why were you out here, and why were you listening to us?"

"Couldn't sleep," Amanda answered honestly. "Some kid has a habit of talking in his sleep, and I'm a really light sleeper. So I came out here to get some peace and quiet. Well, kinda." She pulled her mp3 player out of her pocket and showed it to them. "I know mp3 players are really old-fashioned, but _hey_, it works."

"And you were listening to us?" asked Samantha. Amanda shrugged.

"You woke me up," she replied. "It's really not a big deal, but I didn't want to disturb you."

"Then why do you think you can empathize with us?" John challenged, suddenly hostile. Amanda reeled backwards as if struck, her face a study in surprise. Then she frowned and looked away.

"My grandma died last spring," she said quietly. She shrugged silently. "She had emphysema. Diagnosed before I was born."

Samantha and John were quiet for a moment, and then the blonde opened her mouth to speak. However, she never got the chance to, for at that moment, the common room door opened from the Marines' wing, and in walked Dwayne, looking grim. He blinked when he saw them sitting on the loveseat, but then brushed it off, coming over to them.

Amanda blinked up at her 'big brother', seeing that his unusually solemn dark brown gaze was fixed on her, and she stood as he neared them.

"Dwayne?" she asked quietly. "What's wrong?"

Dwayne took a deep breath, and his pitying gaze drifted between the Grimm siblings before landing back on Amanda.

"We got a call from your mother," he said softly. "There's been an accident."

Amanda felt the blood drain out of her face, her thoughts racing a mile a minute.

"Who?" was all she could hoarsely ask. What she meant was "_Who died this time?"_ but she couldn't get the rest of the sentence out past the lump in her throat.

"Your father and your mother's parents," Dwayne told her, voice surprisingly gentle. "Your mother says that your dad's going to be alright with enough therapy."

"Then Grandma and Grandpa are dead?" Amanda choked out. Her voice was constricted, but her eyes were dry.

Dwayne frowned and laid a hand on the ten-year-old's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"I need to go home," Amanda murmured dazedly.

"Go get your things," Dwayne told her gently.

Amanda wordlessly did as she was told. Dwayne was left with the Grimm kids, who looked up at him with tears in their hazel eyes. He looked back at them ruefully.

"Two accidents in one day," the Marine murmured, seemingly to himself, "and both of them happening to people I care about."

Amanda returned two minutes later, all of her possessions packed in a duffel bag that was slung over her shoulder. She was dressed in her school uniform. She came to a fair imitation of a parade rest in front of Dwayne, John, and Samantha, and then saluted Dwayne as best she could.

"Cadet Halley, ready for deployment, sir," she joked weakly with a faint twitch of her lips.

"At ease, Marine," Dwayne returned. Amanda dropped her salute. "Go out to the admin building. They've got a ride waiting for you there. You'll be taken to the airport." He paused. "Tex's sending Simmons to go with you."

Amanda swallowed. "Tell her I said thanks, would you?"

"Sure," Dwayne replied. Amanda nodded, and then turned to Samantha and John.

"It was very nice to meet you," Amanda said, and took a deep breath before holding out her hand to them. Samantha shook it without hesitation, her expressive hazel eyes relaying her grief and empathy plainly to Amanda. John, on the other hand, pulled Amanda close into a tight hug.

"I'm sorry," he whispered in her ear. "Take care."

Amanda hugged him back, comfortable as only ten-year-olds could be. "Thanks," she told him. "I wish I could have gotten to know you better. Take care of yourself, and of Samantha."

That said, she pulled away from him, slightly uncomfortable, only to be scooped into a hug by Dwayne.

"Don't take crap from anybody on those airplanes," Dwayne told her firmly. Amanda nodded.

"Right," she said. Then they parted, and Amanda looked up at him, a new determination in her eyes even though it was tempered by her grief and shock. "Semper fi?"

"Semper fi," Dwayne returned. Amanda smiled, and saluted mockingly.

"You'll make a great sergeant, Sarge," she said jokingly. "Kick some noob ass for me in training, wouldja?"

Dwayne chuckled. "Sure thing," he said, and then saluted.

"Later, Sarge," Amanda said, and turned to go.

"Later, Amanda."

Amanda walked out the door, and never looked back.

* * *

**_Disclaimer: I don't own Doom or any of its characters or locations. I only own a copy of the movie and the book (which, by the way, is much better than the movie)._**

_Hope that wasn't too unbelievable, but that's exactly how I would feel if somebody approached me with that kind of news. Please pardon any formatting inconsistencies. They're all the document manager's fault._

_Big thank you to my one staunch supporter, **EnigmaticPseudonym**. You're awesome! Kudos to you for catching the RvB references in the last chapter._

_Oh, and happy birthday to my best friend! You know who you are!_

_Next chapter will be posted on 7-6-09._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	4. 2039 AD Pendleton 1000 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

_"Benjamin Franklin once said that 'There never was a good war or a bad peace'... Che. Yeah, right. A bad peace is when you're bored all the time."  
--anonymous_

_**Chapter 3.**_

* * *

_**2039 A.D. - Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton - 1000 hours**_

Nine years.

Three thousand, two-hundred-seventy-eight point two-five days.

Seventy-eight thousand, six-hundred-seventy-eight hours.

Four million, two-hundred-six thousand, six-hundred-eighty minutes.

Two-hundred-eighty-three million, two-hundred-forty thousand, eight hundred seconds.

Nine years.

That was how long it had been since that fateful morning on which Amanda Blair Halley met John and Samantha Grimm, since that day when her father was injured and her grandparents were killed in a car accident. Amanda had gone home to Missouri that day to wait for a funeral. There had not been much she could do to help out at home, having been only ten years old at the time, but she had babysat her then seven-year-old brother and five-year-old sister, at least when her mom needed her to.

She had then gone back to the Marine base and continued her studies. When a sufficient amount of time had passed, Amanda graduated early from high school, and had transferred to a Naval academy. There, she had become a medical specialist like she had planned. Then she had returned to the Marines.

Now, nine long years of blood, sweat, and tears later, nineteen-year-old Amanda Blair Halley stood at attention with the rest of the Marines of her class. She was decked out in full traditional uniform, her feet properly placed, her brown hair done up in a tidy bun, her features grave and knowing.

In front of her, the commanding officer was speaking. Amanda listened to his words, committing them all to memory, but on the inside she was cheering.

_We made it!_ she thought triumphantly. _We're Marines!_

The ceremony ended soon enough, and Amanda trooped out with the rest of the Marines of her class to return to her barracks. Once there, they were dismissed by their commanding officer for the afternoon. After saluting, Amanda made her way out of the barracks to the pavilion where her family was waiting for her.

Amanda's two best friends, Amanda Katherine Mallory and Victoria Elizabeth Jager, rushed her as she approached, excited congratulations upon their lips. Amanda hugged them both with a few chuckles and a big grin, and then allowed them to lead her over to the rest of her family.

Her mother, father, sister, brother, and grandfather all embraced her when she got to them. Mary Nicole Halley, fourteen years old, chattered away excitedly, and David Brian Halley, sixteen years old, gave Amanda a sedate but proud nod.

Amanda's father, Keith Daniel Halley, kissed her on the forehead and pulled her into a bear hug, tears in his eyes and words of how proud he was upon his lips. Amanda's mother, Marie Jane Halley, wept as she tenderly embraced her daughter, beyond words.

Then she came to her grandfather. Daniel Edward Halley was a gentleman. He had been born during the late 1960s, and had been in the Navy during the Cold War. Amanda snapped a brisk salute when she stood in front of him, and then smiled when he saluted her back.

Amanda hugged him tightly around the middle, burying her nose in her grandfather's chest.

"Thanks for coming, grandpa," she whispered.

"Glad I could," he returned, squeezing her with a chuckle. Amanda smiled, but it soon turned sad. After a few seconds of smelling her grandfather's familiar cologne, she sniffled a little. He hummed soothingly.

"What's the matter?" he asked. Amanda hiccuped as she reined in her emotions and stood back. She was unable, however, to hide the tears swimming in her brandy-brown eyes.

"I wish Grandma was here," she whispered. "And Grandpa and Grandma Currey, too."

Daniel smiled, and kissed his granddaughter on the forehead. "Me, too," he said, "but they're watching you right now, and they don't want you to ruin your special day with tears."

Amanda gave a watery grin. "Thanks, Grandpa."

* * *

_**2040 A.D. - Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton - 1900 hours**_

It had been one. Fucking. Year.

One year since Amanda had become a Marine! And she still didn't have a squad to call her own! After all, who needed a combat medical specialist when all Marines were practically trained as EMTs?

Amanda sighed, poking at her food. It was the day after Thanksgiving, again, and less than three months until her twenty-first birthday. Her grandfather was in the hospital with appendicitis, her mother had had to have a root canal, her brother's soccer team had won a tournament, and her sister had a huge fucking crush on a senior at her high school. Her cousin, Victoria Elizabeth Jager, had gotten married to her childhood sweetheart, Mitchell Kent Silverman. Amanda's other best friend, Amanda Katherine Mallory, was going for her bachelor's in English literature.

All in all, it had been a long, exciting year for everybody back home, but Amanda had found that the time had passed slowly from her boredom.

Sighing again, Amanda finally gave up on trying to enjoy her food. She quickly scarfed it down, not really noting its flavor, and then she stacked her tray on the washing pile and headed out to the shooting range.

Or, at least, she would have, had she not been intercepted halfway across the green by a Marine who looked like an officer.

"Lance Corporal Amanda Blair Halley?" the man asked. Amanda looked to him, and then snapped to attention when she saw the markings on his coat.

"Sir!" she replied.

"At ease, Marine," the man said. Amanda relaxed to parade rest. "Will you walk with me?"

"Yessir," Amanda answered automatically. Then she fell in beside the officer, keeping her eyes forward.

"I hear tell that you're in need of a squad," the man started after a moment of silence.

"Yessir, I've been without one for a year," Amanda said. She knew that that was not something one would normally say when someone asked about one's career, but Amanda knew that honesty was the best policy in most cases.

"Why?"

"I've never been recruited, sir." Amanda kept her voice matter-of-fact. "People generally prefer men over women, it seems."

"I see," the officer said. There was another pause. "I have an opening on a squad that I believe that you could fill rather well, Marine."

Amanda blinked, turning to stare at the officer, meeting his gaze properly for the first time. "Sir?"

"The Rapid Response Tactical Squad needs another member," the officer said. Amanda felt her heart leap, and she barely contained a grin.

"Then you're talking to the right Marine, sir," she said.

"What are you most proficient in?" the officer inquired.

"I'm a medical specialist," Amanda replied, "but I've trained extensively as a sniper over the past year. I can hit a bullseye at one-hundred-fifty yards without a scope. I can pick up almost any weapon and become proficient with it rather quickly."

"You'll do nicely," the officer said. He halted, and so did Amanda. "Be ready to leave by 0300 hours tomorrow. You'll take a chopper northeast to Twentynine Palms, and then you'll meet the rest of the RRTS Six before daily training."

"Understood, sir," Amanda stated, barely containing her excitement. Then she paused. "Permission to speak, sir?"

"Granted."

"Who will be my commanding officer?" Amanda was purely curious.

"Sergeant Dwayne Mahonin," the man replied. Amanda smiled openly, this time.

"Thank you, sir," she said. The Marine looked at her questioningly.

"Do you know him?"

"Yessir," she replied. "He was like my big brother. He joined RRTS when I was ten."

"I'm glad for you, then. Better get packing," the officer said. Then he snapped a salute. Amanda saluted him, as well. "Dismissed, Marine. Good luck. You'll need it."

"Sir!" Amanda returned. Then she dropped her salute and walked calmly back to her barracks.

It was only when she was isolated in the sanctity of her empty dorm that she released the shout of elation that she had suppressed. Then she got to work packing up all of her few worldly possessions.

When that was done, Amanda went to bed, setting her watch alarm for 0230 hours. Even though it was only around seven o'clock at night, she forced her excitement down and pushed herself into a power sleep, knowing that she would need the rest.

She drifted off within seconds.

* * *

**_Disclaimer: Don't own Doom. Sorry._**

_Not much to say, this time. I don't have internet access readily available right now, so my updates might be sporadic. Sorry._

_Hope you liked the chapter, and a huge thank you to **EnigmaticPseudonym** for being so supportive in this venture. Thanks! Hugs to you!_

_Next chapter will be posted 7-13-09._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	5. 2040 AD Pendleton 0230 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

_"Here's to those who wish us well, and those who don't can go to hell and be done with it."  
-anonymous_

_**Chapter 4.**_

_******-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**_

_**2040 A.D. - Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton - 0230 hours**_

The quiet beeping of her alarm woke Amanda from her sleep, and she quickly turned it off so that it didn't wake any of the other girls in her dorm. When that was done, Amanda silently got out of bed, dressed, packed up her pajamas, and then made her bed before putting on her shoes and hoisting her bag onto her shoulder. Then she made her way silently out of the room, not even bothering to say goodbye to the other women there. After all, she was not particularly close to any of them.

By the time Amanda got to the landing pad where the chopper was waiting for her, it was 0253 hours. To her surprise, Simmons and Tex were waiting for her there, each smiling at her as they saw her walk up.

"Amanda!" Tex greeted, coming up and giving Amanda a hug. Amanda was shocked. After all, it was not every day that the Ice Queen came up and hugged someone. However, Amanda gratefully returned the embrace after a second. When Tex pulled away, Amanda was all but tackled by Simmons, who squeezed her tightly before backing off and ruffling her hair.

"Hey!" Amanda squawked in indignation.

"My little girl, all grown up!" Simmons exclaimed, wiping a fake tear from his eye. "And she's going to save the U.S.!"

Amanda rolled her eyes at the butchered quote. "It doesn't go like that, you dimwit," she stated. "It's 'My baby's all grown up, and saving China'!"

"Yeah, well," Simmons hedged. "That doesn't exactly fit in this situation, so I modified it."

"You don't sound like Eddie Murphy, either."

"I sound cooler than fucking Eddie Murphy any day!"

"Enough!" exclaimed Tex. Amanda and Simmons immediately fell silent.

"Amanda," Tex said. "We heard about your acceptance last night, and we wanted to congratulate you."

"So, RRTS, huh?" Simmons teased, nudging Amanda in the ribs.

"Hell fucking _yeah_," Amanda said with a broad grin. "Guess who the CO is."

"Dwayne," they stated at the same time.

"Yep." Amanda's grin widened. "I always told him I'd be a med specialist so I'd be the one to put the rubbing alcohol on his open wounds."

Tex and Simmons burst out laughing at this, which was more than Amanda had ever seen Tex do. They calmed after a second, and then Tex turned back to Amanda.

"Amanda," the older Marine said. "You'll give him hell from all of us with love, right?"

"Oh _hell,_ yes."

"Good!" cried Simmons. Then he held something out to Amanda. It was a package wrapped in a fleece blanket that was patterned with pictures of Christmas trees, Santas, and reindeer. Its corner was embroidered in gold with Amanda's full name, rank, and the date, as well as a cross.

"Open it after you leave, and use them well," Simmons said. "I know you'll like them."

Amanda blinked and took the package. It was surprisingly heavy. She eyed him warily.

"Will I get arrested for possession?" she inquired, her voice deadpan. Simmons laughed.

"Of course not!" he protested good-naturedly. "It's just a little early Christmas present for you to use to remind those boys who's boss 'round your barracks."

"Thanks, Simmons," Amanda said, and hugged him tightly. She knew as well as either of the older Marines that this might very well be the last time she ever saw them.

"I also got you something," Tex said after Amanda let go of Simmons. Amanda turned to the auburn-haired woman, and Tex held out a long, thin case with a smaller box on top of it.

"I'll go ahead and tell you now so you aren't too surprised," the older Marine said. "In the big case is an M60 bolt-action sniper rifle with telescopic sight, accurate and effective up to 2.75 miles. It's got a helluva kick, but I included a silencer with it."

Amanda's jaw had dropped about halfway through the explanation, and now she closed it and stared down at the case in her hands.

"Holy mother-fucking _shit_," she breathed, wide-eyed. "Tex, you didn't have to give me anything, let alone a fucking _cannon!"_

"The barrel takes up about three fifths of the total length, and actually, it's not just from me," Tex admitted with a smile. "Simmons, Caboose, Jackrabbit, Fox, Wolfhound, and Coyote all chipped in, too. You'll find that you've got enough ammo there to fire that thing at a target range for about ten years. But just in case you ever run out, it takes .50 calibre rounds. It has a submachine gun that came with it. That baby can be switched between semi-automatic and full-automatic for contolled bursts."

Amanda smiled tightly. "No wonder this thing weighs so much," she muttered, hefting the gun case. "It's gotta be around a good seventy-five pounds!"

"Something like that," Tex said with a grin. "The smaller package is your ammo, but I think you can carry it pretty easily, hmm?"

"Fuck yeah," Amanda whispered, and set her duffel bag, the gun case, and the two smaller packages down on the ground in favor of giving Tex a heartfelt hug. She didn't hesitate to include Simmons in on it, as well.

"You two take care of yourselves," Amanda said. "I don't want this to be the last time I see you two."

"You take care of yourself, too, Amanda," Tex replied.

"Yeah, I don't want a phone call from Sarge saying you got yourself fucking killed," Simmons added. Amanda sniffled a little, holding back tears, and then pulled back, hearing the chopper begin to power up.

"Will do," she said. Then she snapped a salute, which Tex and Simmons returned.

"Make us proud, Marine," Tex told Amanda. They all returned to parade rest.

"Semper fidelis," Amanda said.

"She's learned so well," Simmons sniffed, crying fake tears.

"Cut the crap, Simmons," Amanda scoffed, smiling. She knelt, and tucked the two smaller packages into her duffel bag. "I'll make you so proud you'll puff up and fucking fly away with the next strong wind."

"You do that," Tex said, "and don't forget to keep in touch." Amanda grinned, and hefted her gun case and duffel bag.

"I'll be sure to write," she said, and then continued teasingly, "Expect your mailboxes to be flooded with love letters by the end of the week." Then she went to the chopper and climbed in.

The last she saw of Tex and Simmons was them saluting her. A voice from up front asked her if she was ready to go, and when she replied in the affirmative, the chopper hatch shut, and Amanda lost sight of her two friends.

At 0300 hours, Amanda Blair Halley left her past behind, and looked toward her future.

* * *

_**2040 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 0400 hours**_

Amanda walked toward the door of the barracks, gun case in one hand, duffel bag slung over her shoulder, and a ring of keys she had been given clutched in her left hand. She was to let herself in, set her things down next to an empty bunk in the barracks, and then cool off until 0530 hours, when the rest of the squad would get up and she would meet them.

Amanda unlocked the door without a word, and swung it open on silent hinges. She pocketed the keys. Then she went in, closed and locked the door again, and made her way down the stairs, mapping the compound out in her head.

At the bottom of the stairs were the living quarters. Amanda could see and hear the forms of six sleeping men in bunks around the room. There was only one empty bunk that she could make out in the low light, against the far wall across from a blond-haired man and next to a large African American man. Shrugging, she crept over to the bed and set her things down on top of it.

Now Amanda had completed two of her objectives. However, she was too excited to just sleep for another hour and fifteen minutes, so she began to unpack, grateful that she had long ago learned how to make her locker stay silent whenever she opened or closed it. Into the locker went all of her clothes, her spare boots, and her one pair of casual shoes, for when she was off-duty. On the shelf at the top of the locker, Amanda stashed her new ammunition after removing about two clips' worth of cartridges, which she put into her belt pouch. When that was done, Amanda turned to the packages that she had not yet opened.

She went for Simmons' present first, untying the twine that held it closed. The microfleece blanket fell away under her practiced hands to reveal a box and a pair of fuzzy white bunny slippers.

"Simmons, I'm gonna kill you," Amanda hissed, setting the slippers aside. Her voice held no real venom in it, though, and she turned to the box, opening it up.

Inside was a large black pouch that would either clip to a vest or belt, or could be slung over a shoulder using a long strap. Amanda opened up the pouch to find a medical kit containing various gauze bandages, disinfectants, tourniquets, patches, surgical tape, and a large bottle of rubbing alcohol.

Written on the bottle were the words "For use on Sarge. -Simmons". Amanda barely stifled a snicker. Completing the set was an array of surgical scalpels, clamps, forceps, probes, and scissors.

"Sweet Jesus, Simmons," Amanda whispered to herself, running her hand over the scalpels. "Trust you to send me with a repertoire of medical supplies that would make a surgeon green with envy..."

Amanda repacked the pouch, and then went to put it back in the box. However, the presence of another object in the bottom of the box made her pause and set the pouch aside.

It was a roll of heavy black canvas, thick and weighty. Amanda raised her eyebrows and lifted it out. It came unrolled with a click of a buckle.

Amanda's eyebrows shot towards her hairline.

It was a set of various knives and their sheathes. There were six that were balanced for throwing, one OKC-3S bayonet, a Fairbairn-Stykes fighting knife, and a large knife that Amanda recognized as a KA-BAR bowie knife. The throwing knives had small sheathes with straps and buckles that would allow her to conceal them anywhere on her person, whereas the other three knives had sheathes of their own.

"No fuckin' shit, Sims," Amanda breathed, admiring the set. "These'll definitely come in handy for keeping the boys in line..."

Then she shook her head, stowed away the medical pouch, and began to distribute the throwing knives on her person. The bayonet went into the locker, also, but the Fairbairn-Stykes knife she slipped into her boot while she attached the KA-BAR to her belt. She put away the microfleece blanket and bunny slippers. Then she closed the locker, took her gun case, and silently made her way out of the dorm.

At the top of the stairs to Amanda's left was a door that she could see led to the kitchen. To her right was a short hallway, ending with a door that obviously led to the CO's room. Branching off of the hallway was a door leading to a sterile white room that she surmised was the infirmary. Amanda took the left door, entering the kitchen.

It was a decent-sized thing, with a long table and benches in the center and a cooking area that ran the length of the right wall. Amanda took a seat on the near end of one of the benches and set her gun case down on top of the table.

The latches clicked open after she entered the combination Tex had written down on a piece of paper.

Amanda gave a low whistle.

Inside the case were her new guns. The submachine gun was smaller than the rifle, but no less potent; it had an under-slung flashlight and an over-slung grenade launcher on it. Her rifle was about three and a half feet long from muzzle to stock, and took up most of the case. In the space that was unoccupied there was a gun cleaning kit and the silencer that Tex had mentioned.

Grinning with delight, Amanda took out her rifle and set to cleaning and familiarizing herself with it.

She hummed a jaunty tune as she did it, too.

* * *

_**2040 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 0520 hours**_

Amanda had just finished cleaning her guns and loading a round into her rifle when a sound from the hallway caught her attention. She stopped humming, silenced her breathing, and got up without a sound, making her way to the partially-open kitchen door. Pressing herself against the wall, she prepared to fire, steeling herself. Then she edged around the doorjamb and peered out into the hallway, raising her rifle with a faint rattle and sighting down the long barrel.

It was then that she discovered that the muzzle of her gun was about a inch away from Sergeant Dwayne Mahonin's nose.

Amanda sighed in relief and brought it to a safe position while Dwayne stared at her.

"Lance Corporal Amanda Halley, reporting for duty, sir," Amanda said, saluting. Dwayne blinked at her for a moment, and then returned the salute with a grin and one of his own.

"Glad to have you, Corporal," he replied. "At ease, Marine."

Amanda grinned at her 'big brother', and moved back into the kitchen. Dwayne followed behind her. He let out a low whistle at the sight of the rifle and submachine gun.

"You like?" Amanda asked, wiggling her eyebrows in a teasing manner.

"Very much," Dwayne replied.

"They were part of a parting gift from Tex, Simmons, Caboose, Jackrabbit, Fox, Wolfhound, and Coyote," Amanda explained, and then shook her head. "Simmons also gave me a medical kit that would make a surgeon green with envy, as well as a pouch of knives."

Dwayne chuckled appreciatively. "Overprotective, much?" he teased.

Amanda laughed with him. "Very," she concurred, "but I'm glad they did it nonetheless."

They were quiet for a moment, until Amanda finally turned to Dwayne.

"So, what do I call you now?" she asked. "Do I call you 'Sarge', like I used to? Or should I call you 'Sugar-bear' like Aunt Bonnie did?"

"You call me Sugar-bear and I'll put a few new holes in you," Dwayne replied, glaring at her. "The men know me as Sarge."

"Sarge it is, then," Amanda said with a grin. Then she reached over and socked him lightly in the arm. "I always told you you'd be a Sarge one day."

Sarge grinned. "Yes, you did."

They shared a knowing smile, and then Sarge got to his feet again.

"Time to wake up the troops," he sighed. "You wanna come with, or wait here?"

"I have to put my submachine gun and the case away, anyway," Amanda stated, and quickly packed said weapon back into the case along with the cleaning kit. She kept her rifle slung over her shoulder, and only paused to take out the sniper scope before she closed and locked the gun case. She easily lifted it. Then she followed Sarge downstairs to the barracks.

When they entered the room, Amanda continued back to her bunk, not bothering to hide her footsteps, and slid the gun case underneath her cot. It scraped loudly against the cement floor.

"Alright, everybody up and at 'em!" Sarge shouted at that time, and flipped the lights on. There came a round of groans and curses, and slowly, all six of the men got out of bed to start their day. Amanda averted her gaze for a second in order to roll her eyes when she saw that some of them slept in the nude.

"Men, we have a new recruit," Sarge announced. "Introduce yourselves, and then come up for breakfast."

There came a chorus of 'Yes, Sarge', and Sarge walked up the stairs. When he was gone, a thin, blond man with blue eyes sneered at the stairwell.

"Well? Where's this fuckin' rookie?" he asked. Amanda noticed that he had a smooth, nasal voice, the kind that might woo other women. She placed his accent as Southeastern US, maybe Georgia or the Carolinas. Personally, she thought it was rather disturbing.

"Over here, jackass," she called. At the sound of her voice, the men spun to face her, and the ones who had slept nude turned red.

After all, it was not every day that they woke up to find that they'd started getting dressed in front of a strange woman.

A second passed before Amanda rolled her eyes. "Stop fuckin' staring, you dumbasses," she said, glaring at them all. "It's not like you haven't seen a woman in uniform before, and frankly, what I see is rather unimpressive."

The sleazy blond man grinned at her, halting in his dressing to glance down at himself and then up at her.

"What?" he asked. "Don't like what you see?"

Amanda rolled her eyes. "Like I said, I'm unimpressed."

"Oh, that's cold," said an Indian American, across the room from Amanda. When Amanda looked over at him blandly, he smiled and bowed. "Manish Bandi, also known as Indian. Nice to meet you." He gestured to the blond man who, in response, gave Indian the one-fingered salute. "That's Dean Portman. We just call him Portman."

"I'm Roark Gannon," said the big black man from the bunk next to hers. "Peeps call me Destroyer."

Amanda raised her eyebrows. "Wouldn't 'Hulk' be more fitting?" she joked, lowering an eyebrow so that her left one was arched.

Destroyer just smiled in response.

Now the other blond man introduced himself from where he was standing next to his bunk across the center aisle from Amanda. He had a thick German accent.

"I am Adam Olaf," he told her, holding out his hand to shake hers. Amanda shook his hand with a nod. "They call me Pug."

Amanda shook her head with a chuckle. "Marines, not poets," she reminded herself.

Next came a black-haired Mexican man, who waved to her from his bunk near the stairwell. "Harry Alewar," he said, his accent barely noticable. "Codename Hound."

"Pleased, I'm sure," Amanda said dryly. Hound, after all, was just in his briefs.

"I'm Abel Sartorius," said a brown-haired man with blue eyes. He had the bunk on the other side of Destroyer's. "They call me Hellraiser."

"And for good reason," said a solemn voice. Amanda felt a smile come to her face as she turned to the previously unnoticed man who had the bunk next to Pug's.

"Goat," she greeted. "Real name Eric Fantom." She walked over to him to shake his hand with a smile. "Good to see you again, bro."

"Wait a minute!" Portman exclaimed, and Amanda turned to see him looking between her and Goat. "He's your brother? You don't look anything alike!"

"It is a figurative thing," Goat stated. Amanda raised an eyebrow, and then glanced back to Goat.

"Us? Related?" she scoffed. "Fat chance."

Goat looked over at Portman. "Touch her, and I shall have to cut another cross into my arm on account of murder," Goat stated.

"Oh, don't worry, Goat," Amanda said with a sardonic laugh. She turned glinting eyes on Portman. "I can take care of myself in a scrap. You and Sarge don't need to get involved."

"Why would Sarge get involved?" Portman prompted warily.

"He's my unofficial big brother, of course." Amanda's voice was deceptively calm, but her gaze promised retribution should any of them try to make a move on her.

"I'm about due for some breakfast, methinks," Amanda said pleasantly. She turned and walked to the stairs, and then paused and turned back to them.

"By the way, I'm Amanda Halley," she told the men. "You'd do well to remember it."

"Don't worry," Destroyer said to her. "We'll get you a proper nickname by the end of the week."

Amanda cast a smile to him. "Thanks, Destroyer."

Then she headed upstairs again, leaving them staring at her.

She would certainly have a lot of interesting stuff to tell her family about over the phone, that night.

* * *

**_Disclaimer: Sigh. I still don't own Doom. Sorry that you bloodsucking lawyers out there can't sue me._**

_Still don't have readily-accessible internet, so I'm uploading this from the library. Longer chapter, this time, so I hope you liked it._

_I'm really happy. I have another reviewer! A huge thank you to the two people who reviewed: EnigmaticPseudonym and bloomsky. To Pseudonym: Does this satisfy your curiosity? Don't worry, there'll be a lot more RRTS from here on out. Hope you like it, and I hope that it was realistic enough for you. ^.^_

_I don't really know if Amanda should swear so much... Right now, I've got her as trying to "fit in" with the guys, but she mellows out a bit later._

_Oh, and another note. I **ABSO-FUCKING-LUTELY** **HATE** THE DOCUMENT MANAGER ON HERE RIGHT NOW. IT IS SUCH A **PAIN.**_

_Simmons, Tex, Sarge, and Pug are my favorite characters so far, aside from Amanda. How about you? Oh, and would anybody like me to post Amanda's bio up here?_

_Next chapter will be posted 7-20-09._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	6. 2041 AD RRTS Barracks 0500 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

_"Only a truly awesome artist can make a realistic Pikachu from fried pancake batter. You must be a crappy artist."  
-anonymous_

_**Chapter 5.**_

* * *

_**2041 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 0500 hours**_

Three months had passed since Amanda had been inducted into the Rapid Response Tactical Squad. At the moment, she had expected to have it hard, being the only woman in a squad of men. She had been right.

Every morning, Sarge woke them up at 0530 hours. The team dressed, ate breakfast, and then at 0600 hours they drove out to the nearby Joshua Tree National Park in full gear and fully armed. Once there, they ran twenty miles along the various trails of the park for one to two hours. Then they headed back to the barracks. What they did next depended on the day.

After their morning calisthenics, the team always came back and lifted weights until 1200 hours. Then they ate lunch, after which they did one of two things: Either they went out to the shooting range, or they did some other exercise that concentrated on their survival techniques. Such exercises varied from swimming and diving, to EMT tech manipulations, to close-combat fighting, among other things.

They would do any of those things until 1900 hours, at which time they came back in to shower, eat dinner, and then get a little on-base rest before bed. Their curfew was at 2200 hours.

However, every other Friday Sarge held a sparring tournament, which the whole team participated in. No weapons, no armor other than their jumpsuits and flak vests, no holds barred. They paired off by drawing names out of a hat. Then the winners would fight each other until there were only two people left. They then fought it out, and the winner got some kind of a prize.

Today was much like any other Thursday, but Amanda had risen early. Dressing in the dark room, she crept silently up the stairs, careful not to make a sound, and went into the deserted kitchen.

Once there, she picked up the land line that sat on the counter, and dialed the number for her home in Missouri. Forcing back the lump in her throat, Amanda put the receiver to her ear. The other end was picked up after two rings.

"Hello?" asked a woman's voice, groggy with sleep.

"Hey, mom," Amanda said, forcing cheerfulness into her voice.

"Amanda!" Marie Halley exclaimed. "Wow, is it February 7th already? Happy birthday, baby!"

"Thanks," Amanda replied dryly. "How're you doing?"

"We're all good," Marie replied. "You remember that your dad and grandpa are flying out today, don't you?"

"How could I forget?" Amanda retorted, a smile coming to her face. "Dave's been ranting about it for a month." She lowered the pitch of her voice and began to whine. "'How come they get to go and I don't?' 'Amanda, mom won't let me come out!'" She sighed, and talked normally again. "You know how he is."

"Don't I." Marie's voice was as dry as Amanda's had been. "Hey, your dad wants to talk to you, so expect to get a call to your cell later on, or something."

"Right," Amanda said slowly. "Isn't he there now?"

"No, he had to run to the office to make sure they remembered that he has the next couple of days off," Marie explained. There was a pause. "I miss you, baby."

"Miss you, too, mom," Amanda told her quietly.

"I have to go wake David and Mary up, now," Marie said, her voice soothing. "Could you give us a call when you pick up dad and grandpa from the airport?"

"Sure," Amanda replied. "Did you tell them that I probably won't get out until about seven?"

"Yeah, they're taking the eleven o'clock flight out, and they've got a layover in Frisco before they take a plane down to Ontario International. That's where you'll have to pick them up from."

"Right, and then they're staying the weekend at the hotel in Twentynine Palms, right?" Amanda inquired.

"Right," Marie affirmed. "Just pick them up whenever you can."

"Yes, ma'am," Amanda said quietly, smiling to herself. "Have fun waking up Dave and Mary."

"I love you, Amanda," Marie said gently.

"Love you, too, mom." Amanda glanced at the clock. "I gotta go, the rest of RRTS'll be up soon, and I really don't wanna have Sarge on my case for not letting them all know I was calling you."

"Tell them all I said hi," Marie said with a laugh. Amanda smiled.

"Will do," she said. "I'll call you later. Love you."

"Love you, too," Marie chuckled. "Bye."

"Bye," Amanda said quietly. Then she hung up, letting her fingers rest on the receiver for a second before she took a breath and turned to the stove.

"It's been a while since I had a good Missouri breakfast," she murmured to herself. Then she frowned with determination, rolled up her sleeves, and got to work.

She would conquer that finicky stove if it was the last thing she did!

* * *

_**2041 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 0530 hours**_

Amanda had heard Sarge go to get the men up, and when she heard him ask where she was, she hollered her location down the stairs. Sarge came up into the kitchen a second later.

As he opened the door, Amanda immediately turned to him and saluted, forgetting about the spatula she had in her hand. When she realized that she had just held a spatula up to her forehead, she grimaced and sheepishly hid it behind her back with a grin.

"Sorry, Sarge," she said, chuckling. Sarge's eyebrows shot up when he saw her standing there, and Amanda wondered briefly what she must look like.

"You've got flour in your hair," Sarge deadpanned. The corners of his mouth twitched, and Amanda knew he was trying to hide a smile. "And what's with the apron?"

"I was trying to stay somewhat clean, Sarge," Amanda shot back.

"It didn't work too well, did it?" By this time, he was chuckling, though the volume of his laughter was growing by the second. Amanda glanced down at herself. Every visible inch of her was covered in white powder.

She looked back up at Sarge with a blank look. "You wanna try this?" she asked incredulously.

Sarge held up one hand, bent over with his mirth. "Fuck, no!" he gasped out.

Amanda's eyes narrowed, and a tic started in her right eyebrow. Wordlessly, she grabbed the ladle from her bowl of pancake batter and emptied most of the liquid off. Then she flicked the remaining white goop at Sarge.

It splattered across his face.

A stunned silence hung in the air for almost five minutes. Then Amanda smelled burning bread, and squeaked, turning back to the pan and rushing to flip the pancake that was on the griddle.

Sarge erupted with roaring laughter.

This was how the rest of the team found them half a minute later. Sarge was bent over, in stitches, with pancake batter dripping down his cheek, nose, and forehead, and Amanda was cussing like a sailor at a pan on the stove.

"Get off there, you dickheaded, mother-fuckin', sonuvabitchin' shitface of a flapjack!" she was shouting at it, trying to work a spatula under a particularly stuck-on pancake.

"Ya know, I dun think I've ever heard a girl cuss that bad 'cept when her lover pisses her off," Destroyer muttered to Goat. Goat just smiled. Amanda yelled with victory when she finally scraped the ruined flapjack off of the griddle and hurled it viciously against the far wall.

Amanda held the spatula out toward the defeated black lump of bread like a sword, her left hand fisted on her hip. Her eyes were lit maniacally, and she smirked down at the inanimate blob.

"Take _that_, you vile thing!" she crowed victoriously. "_That'll_ teach ya who's boss 'round here, you stubborn-ass motherfucker! Ha!"

Then she turned, greased the pan again, and calmly ladled a few more dollops of pancake batter onto the hot skillet.

Aside, Hound was muttering to Indian, "Dude, she totally just went Shakespeare on that thing."

Indian just sniggered in reply.

"Breathe, Sarge," she drawled, "I'd rather not have to perform CPR on your ugly mug."

Sarge, gasping, reached up and wiped some of the pancake batter off of his face. "I oughta discipline you for assaulting a commanding officer," he choked out. "But, since it was only pancake batter, I think I'll just have you go pick up our new recruit after training today."

That got everybody's attention, even Amanda's.

"New recruit?" parroted Pug curiously.

"Is there an echo in here?" asked Sarge, voice incredulous. "Yes, we are getting a new recruit today." He finally straightened up and looked back over at Amanda. "And Corporal Halley will be picking him up."

Amanda sighed, and blew a flour-covered strand of hair out of her face. It immediately fell back down, weighted by the white powder.

"Where from, and when?" she drawled.

"From Ontario International airport at around 1900 hours," Sarge told her. "You'll leave the target range early, but I hope for your sake you can drive without getting road hypnosis, 'cause you're driving there and back _tonight_."

"Okay," Amanda said, nodding. Then she cocked her head at Sarge. "Do you mind if I pick up my dad and grandpa from the airport while I'm there? They'll be in at around the same time."

Sarge and the rest of the squad looked at her with varying degrees of curiosity and incredulity.

"Why are you picking them up?" Sarge asked, voice deceptively calm. Amanda blinked, and the blanched underneath the flour on her face. Her eyes darted from side to side, seeking an escape.

"Hey, uh, Sarge, how do you like your eggs?" Amanda's attempt to redirect the conversation didn't deter him, however.

"You'll tell me _now,_ Marine," Sarge growled. Amanda sighed, and, to everyone else's faint surprise, looked at her feet, tucking her hands behind her back and scuffing the toe of her boot against the concrete floor. She looked remarkably like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

"They're coming out to see me today," she explained sheepishly. "I was going to pick them up tonight after training, and we were going to go out to the bar and have a drink together."

"And why's that?" prodded Sarge, voice level.

"It's my twenty-first birthday today, sir," Amanda murmured. "I always promised that my dad, grandpa, and I would go out and have a drink on my birthday when I became legal. They're flying out tonight, and staying in Twentynine Palms until Sunday."

There was silence for a second. Then Pug rushed forward and pulled Amanda into a hug, babbling in German.

"Alles Gute zum Geburtstag!" he said. Amanda blinked and pulled away from him, looking at Pug weirdly.

"Um, bless you?" she asked. Pug blinked, and then seemed to realize what he was doing, for he laughed.

"What I meant to say was Happy Birthday," he told her, grinning. Amanda chuckled.

"Thanks, Pug," she said softly.

"Yeah, happy birthday, kid," said Sarge.

"Why the fuck didn't you tell us?!" exclaimed Hellraiser, while Indian and Destroyer just sedately wished her a happy birthday, as well.

"This calls for celebration!" cried Hound. "I'm makin' enchiladas for dinner tonight!"

"Fuck off, Hound," Portman drawled, and eyed Amanda. "I'm gettin' some tequila and me an' sugar-baby are gonna have some fun tonight."

"Not if you wanna keep your family jewels," Amanda said, and brandished her spatula at the blond man before expertly flipping the pancakes on the griddle.

"You tell him," Goat said, quietly supporting her. "Happy birthday, by the way."

"Thanks, Goat," Amanda said. Then she flashed a look at them all. "Pancakes are in the microwave if you want 'em, and I'll have some eggs finished in a few minutes. Just save some of the fuckin' bacon for me, and nobody'll get shot."

Laughing, they all got out plates and tucked in.

* * *

_**Disclaimer: **I don't own Doom or any of its characters. I only own the people you don't recognize._

_Hope you all liked it. My favorite part to write was the pancake battle. That's totally something that I could see _myself_ doing. But that aside... John Grimm will be making an appearance soon. I swear it._

_By the way, if anybody knows German and notices that I've gotten it wrong, then please correct me. I was using Dictionary (dot) com's translator, and I'm unsure of how accurate it is._

_Huge thank you to EnigmaticPseudonym for reviewing the last chapter. You rock!_

_Just to warn you all, I'm going on vacation for two weeks starting next Sunday. I probably won't have internet access while I'm there, so don't expect any chapters to get posted. I'll try to post one before I leave, but no promises except that I'll make up for it when I get back from my vacation. Figure that I'll get back on the 9th or so._

_Next chapter will be posted 8-10-09, or thereabouts._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	7. 2041 AD RRTS Barracks 1200 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum**_

_**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

_"When we assumed the soldier, we did not lay aside the citizen."  
-George Washington_

_**Chapter 6.**_

**-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

_**2041 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 1200 hours**_

They'd had a long run that morning, and Amanda could swear that whenever she took a step her legs were going to buckle beneath her. However, she was grinning as she fixed herself a BLT with some of the leftover bacon from that morning.

"Hey, Sarge?" she called out behind her.

"What?" he returned after a second. Amanda heard him swallow.

"I was talking to my mom and dad on the phone the other day," she began, "and we were wondering if it would be alright for the squad to come to Missouri for Independence Day this year. Mom and dad want to meet y'all."

Silence fell in the kitchen, and Amanda looked up to see seven pairs of eyes staring at her. She frowned.

"Whaaat?" she drawled, putting a hand on her hip. "Did you all really think my _family_ wouldn't care about who I live and work with?" Amanda shook her head. "They've only talked to you guys on the phone. They like you from what they've heard, and they wanna meet the guys who are practically becoming my extended family."

"They really want to meet us?" asked Pug, his sapphire eyes wide.

"Even me?" asked Portman. A leer formed on his face. "Aww, that's sweet! I'm gonna meet my in-laws!"

Amanda snarled, her hand going to the KA-BAR at her hip.

"For the last time today, Portman, I am _not_ going to fuck with you!" Amanda spat viciously. Hound rocked backwards, holding his hands up.

"Whoa, I think she's fucking serious, man!" he exclaimed, his Mexican accent popping out.

"Damn fucking right, I am!" Amanda snapped. "I've had enough of your shit for today, Portman!"

"Enough!" barked Sarge. Amanda growled, but backed down. "Portman, you will shut the fuck up. And Halley, _you_ will take your sandwich and head out to the firing range, right now. Bring your sniper rifle, you're going to break that baby in."

Amanda grumbled, but grabbed her sandwich and stalked out of the kitchen.

"Some fuckin' shitty birthday _this_ is," she muttered as she passed Goat and took a bite of her sandwich. He cast her a reassuring look.

"I would like to meet your family," he said to her, voice quiet. Amanda paused in the doorway.

"T'anks, Goat," she said around her mouthful. Then she was gone.

Silence reigned for a second. Then Sarge spoke.

"Anyone who wants to take her up on her offer for Independance Day is free to do so," Sarge said. "You've all got a four-week leave scheduled for July, anyway."

Whoops echoed throughout the kitchen as the men began to make plans.

Amanda, meanwhile, had retrieved her sniper rifle and submachine gun, and was heading out to the firing range with the firearms slung over her shoulder. She polished off her sandwich as she neared the area, and then entered the shooter's shelter at the near end of the range. Sighing, Amanda put her comm piece in her ear and switched it on from the unit at her hip.

"Sarge, I'm at the range," she said, knowing that it would broadcast over the team comms that the rest of the squad always carried in their belt pouches. There was a second of radio silence, and then Amanda heard Sarge put his earpiece in.

_"Sight 'er in, then,"_ he said.

"Yessir," she mumbled frostily. Sighing heavily, Amanda set her submachine gun down to her side and set up her sniper rifle's bipod. She attached the scope, and then laid prone on the ground behind it, loading a round into the chamber.

"You want the silencer on, Sarge?" she asked.

_"Just shoot the damn gun, Marine,"_ he growled in response. Amanda rolled her eyes, and then sighted up the target that was posted at the opposite end of the range, approximately two-hundred-fifty yards away.

Amanda focused herself, slowly blocking out everything but that little black dot in her scope, a bullseye painted on the forehead of a crash dummy. She took a moment to guage wind direction and speed, the slope of the earth stretching between her and her target. She breathed slowly, in, out, in, out, in-

Amanda held her breath and squeezed the trigger.

"_Fuck!_" The report blasted her eardrums so badly that they rang for a few seconds, and she swore violently at the loud noise. She hurriedly reloaded the rifle, the shell of the last round falling to the ground. Amanda couldn't hear its clinking over the ringing in her ears, but she knew that the sound was there.

A few seconds passed, and gradually she found that she was able to hear properly again. In her ear, Sarge was swearing at her, and she could hear various cuss words coming from her teammates.

_"Amanda, answer me, goddamn it! Report!"_ Sarge shouted.

"Sorry, Sarge, my ears were ringing," Amanda explained, some discomfort in her voice. "I couldn't hear you."

_"What happened?"_

Amanda looked down the sight to the target.

"Let's see," she muttered. Then she caught sight of her handiwork, and raised her eyebrows with a low, appreciative whistle.

_"Well?"_

"Sarge, I think you should come see this," Amanda said, her excitement showing through in her voice. "This thing blew a fucking hole in this target the size of a fucking canteloupe."

_"How accurate was it?"_

"Pretty fucking accurate, sir," she replied. "Scope's calibrated to about a tenth of an inch. I hit the target just barely off-center, but the hole's so fucking big that it's a wonder there's even any target left."

_"Damn."_

"I second that."

It took the squad another five minutes to get out to the range. By that time, Amanda had gone down to replace the crash dummy. She was halfway back when they arrived, and jogged the rest of the way to them, the disembodied head clutched in one hand, her rifle and submachine gun slung over her shoulders.

Amanda reached them, and held out the dummy's head to Sarge while the squad clustered around him to inspect the damage.

Sarge's eyebrows shot upward.

"You weren't fucking kidding," he stated, turning the head over and over in his hands. The front of the dummy was relatively clean, but the whole of the cranial cavity and part of what represented the frontal bone had been completely obliterated. The entry 'wound' was, as Amanda had said, only slightly off-center from the black circle painted on the dummy's forehead.

"Well, I think I just figured out your nickname," Indian announced suddenly. Everybody turned to him, and Amanda held her breath slightly, her heart pounding.

"Really?" she asked. This was the moment of truth, when she would be fully accepted into the squad.

"Tank," Indian stated. "Your nickname is Tank."

Amanda blinked, and then stared blankly at him. "Tank?" she repeated incredulously.

"You're practically our heavy artillery," Indian elaborated. "Tanks are heavy artillery. So, you're Tank."

"It kinda fits," Hound admitted. Amanda sighed.

"Tank it is, then," she muttered.

"Well, 'Tank'," Sarge said to her. She looked up and met his glare blankly. "I wanna see you repeat that fucking shot, with similar results."

Amanda, now Tank, saluted. "Sir!" she exclaimed.

Then she got down and did it again.

* * *

_**2041 A.D. - Ontario International Airport, Ontario, California - 1850 hours**_

Amanda "Tank" Halley parked the black RRTS humvee in a spot right outside of the atrium where she was supposed to meet the new recruit, and killed the engine. Then she pulled out her PDA and dialed her dad's cell number.

He picked up after three rings, his voice jovial.

"Hey, sweets!" he exclaimed. Amanda could hear the noise of the airport in the background.

"Heya, dad," she replied. "It's good to hear your voice. Where are you?"

"Waiting for you," he stated. "We're in the atrium."

"Oh, good," Amanda said. "I'm parked right outside. Black humvee. I'll come in and get you."

"Great!" her dad laughed. "See you in a minute."

"Love you," Amanda said, laughing a bit. "Be right there."

Then she hung up, grabbed the keys, and clambered out of the humvee, tightening the belt on her black jumpsuit as she went. She locked the doors, and then she headed in, her eyes scanning the atrium for a pair of familiar faces.

It didn't take Amanda long to locate her father and grandfather, since both of them had white or almost-white hair. When she spotted them, she headed over to them with a grin.

"Dad!" she called. Keith Halley's blue eyes landed on her, twinkling, and a second later, she reached them, and was swept into a big hug. Her dad laughed softly and ruffled her hair. Amanda tolerated it with admirable patience, and then she hugged Daniel Halley tightly.

"I missed you guys so much!" she exclaimed after she pulled away.

"We missed you, too," her grandfather said. Then her dad hugged her again.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart," he said. "I'm so proud of you."

"Aww, daaad!" Amanda whined playfully, squirming. "I'm a Marine! I'm not supposed to show emotion, let alone PDAs!"

He pulled away and frowned sternly at her, taking her chin in his hand. "I'm your father," he deadpanned. "You may be a Marine, but you _will_ put up with public displays of affection from me and the rest of your family, just like you were doing a minute ago."

"I was just joking with you, jeesh!" Amanda exclaimed, exasperated. Her dad grinned at her.

"So, where to from here?" asked her grandfather. Amanda smiled at them, and then motioned for them to follow her as she headed back out toward the humvee.

"Well, from here we drive back out west to Twentynine Palms," she said. "Sarge said that I have to bring both of you to the barracks after we get you checked into the hotel, though. It'll take us about two hours to get back to Twentynine Palms, give or take."

"I see," Daniel said. They reached the humvee, and Amanda unlocked the back doors. She helped load her grandfather's suitcase in, and then she toted Keith's into the back, also. Then she clambered back out of the humvee and locked it back up.

"We might as well find a bench to sit on," she said. "We'll probably be waiting for a little while."

"Why's that?" asked Keith as she led them over to a bench.

"We're getting a new recruit that Sarge is having me pick up while I'm here," Amanda explained. "If his flight's late, then it'll probably be a while."

"Do you know what he looks like?" Daniel inquired. Amanda shrugged.

"Sarge just told me that he's about six-four, has dark brown hair and hazel eyes, and will be wearing a jumpsuit kinda like mine," Amanda said. "And if he's not wearing a jumpsuit, then he'll be carrying a standard seabag and _he'll_ be looking for _me_."

"Aha," Keith said suddenly. "You mean like that guy right there?" He pointed, and Amanda followed his directions to a young man of about Amanda's own age who was heading towards the trio. The man was wearing a jumpsuit almost identical to her own.

"That'll be him," Amanda sighed, standing and walking to meet him. He had dark brown hair that was cropped short for efficiency, and his sand-colored skin belied his extensive training as a Marine. His hazel eyes, startlingly familiar, landed on Amanda as she neared him.

Once she reached the man, Amanda snapped into a salute. He returned it, and then they dropped the rigidity.

"I'm Tank," Amanda said. "You here for RRTS Six?"

"Lance Corporal John Grimm," the man replied. "And yes, I'm here for RRTS."

Amanda blinked at the name, and took a closer look at him, frowning faintly.

"John Grimm?" she repeated. "As in the son of the famous researchers?"

"Yes ma'am," he said tightly. Amanda smiled.

"At ease, Marine," she said, "I may be your senior, but I'm the same rank as you." She gestured for him to follow her. "Come on."

John fell in behind her, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Amanda led him back over to her father and grandfather and stopped.

"Dad, grandpa, this is Lance Corporal John Grimm, RRTS's newest recruit," Amanda said, and then turned back to John. "John Grimm, this is my father, Keith Halley, and my grandfather, Daniel Halley."

"Nice to meet you," her dad said, extending his hand toward John. John shook both Keith's and Daniel's hands, nodding in greeting.

"Now, let's get this show on the road," Amanda said, and led the men back over to the humvee. She allowed John to put his duffel in the back of the HMMWV, and then she unlocked the doors and everyone climbed in. John sat in the driver-side pilot's seat behind Amanda, and Daniel took shotgun. Keith took the passenger-side pilot's seat, and Amanda slipped in behind the wheel.

Keith leaned forward to look at his father and John, and grinned teasingly. "Better buckle up," he joked. "You'll need it."

Amanda scowled at her father in the rearview mirror as she started the engine. "I'm not a bad driver, dad, or they wouldn't let me operate the humvee," she deadpanned.

Then she carefully backed out of the space, and they were off.

* * *

**_Disclaimer: I don't own Doom or anything related to it. I only own the original characters you may see._**

_I'm back! After a two-week hiatus, I have finally returned! And here is the fruit of my efforts. Hope you liked John's introduction._

_I realize that some of the characters may be slightly out of character, but please remember that they are younger here than in the movie by several years. They haven't seen as much pain and death and utter loss at this time, and so are bound to act differently. After all, people change, though that change doesn't occur overnight. It is a gradual transition from what you are one day to the next. This is the rate at which the characters in here will change._

_By the way, I noticed that, even with two weeks, nobody reviewed my last chapter. That's rather disappointing, since the interaction between Sarge and Amanda in the last chapter was some of my favorite dialogue._

_Oh, and if anybody is dismayed by the lack of action and blood in this fic, don't worry. There'll be a big fight scene coming up sometime soon, probably within the next four chapters or so. It'll be a whole long chapter of nothing but tactics, marksmanship, and guts, I promise._

_I'll probably post the next chapter tomorrow or so. I'm tired. I drove all the way from Indianapolis to east St. Louis last night from around 11 o'clock or so to about half-past midnight. Not the most energy-producing thing._

_Of course, I slept until four this afternoon, but that's beside the point._

_Will update soon. Promise._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	8. 2041 AD RRTS Barracks 2020 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum**_

_**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

_"What do you think of, when you're all alone in the cold dark of the night? What do you dream of, in those moments when you long for the relative simplicity of human contact?"  
-Anonymous_

_**Chapter 7.**_

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_**2041 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 2020 hours**_

"See? That wasn't so bad," Amanda stated as she pulled into the garage at the barracks compound an hour and a half after leaving the airport. Daniel grinned at her, and Keith laughed. John didn't react, but it seemed that he wasn't a very social person.

"Yeah," Keith drawled teasingly. "Now let's go meet that Sarge of yours."

Amanda rolled her eyes, killed the engine, and then got out. The other three followed suit. John retrieved his duffel bag from the back of the humvee, and the four of them headed for the main barracks compound.

"By the way," Amanda told her father and grandfather as she unlocked the door. "These guys can have pretty foul mouths sometimes, just to warn you. Also, I invited them to Missouri for Independence Day, like we discussed." She finally managed to get the lock open, and turned the handle, shouldering the door open. "I know of at least one of them who'll be coming."

Amanda paused in the doorway, however, when she saw that all the lights were out. She held up a hand to stop her father from entering, immediately focusing. Amanda felt the back of her neck prickle.

"Stay here," she whispered to them, and slowly dropped to one knee, drawing her Fairbairn-Stykes out of its sheath in her boot. Then she advanced cautiously into the dark interior of the barracks, every sense hightened.

Amanda checked the kitchen first, peeking around the doorjamb before reaching in with her free hand and flipping the light switch. Her eyes quickly scanned the area, taking in everything.

Clear.

Amanda left the lights on and made her way to the stairwell. She winced as she peered down into the darkness, wishing she had a flashlight.

Stairs were a tactical nightmare. One couldn't see around corners, and the angle of elevation meant that if any hostiles had projectile weapons, they could harm her before she even had the chance to strike. Taking a deep breath and preparing herself for anything, Amanda slowly edged down the stairs.

She made it all the way to the bottom without incident. Then, the lights suddenly turned on, momentarily blinding her, and she leapt forward with a snarl, her blade flashing out.

"Shit!" she heard a male voice shout, and she identified it as Hellraiser. Thankfully, Amanda was able to arrest her strike before it could connect, and she stood there, blinking, until her vision cleared.

Her knife hovered a half an inch away from Hellraiser's jugular vein.

A few tense seconds passed. Then Amanda sighed and sheathed her knife, putting her hands on her hips.

"Surprise!" The whole squad was there, and they belatedly shouted this to her as she stared around at them.

"Next time, don't leave all the lights off," Amanda sighed, shaking her head. "But thanks for the sentiments, guys."

"Come _on,_ Tank!" whined Indian. "You're supposed to be surprised!"

Amanda stared blankly at him. "I am surprised," she snarked. "Just give me a moment to get over the shock, and then I'll kick all your asses for almost giving me a heart attack."

"So she _does_ care!" exclaimed Portman, feigning shock. Amanda shook her head, finally getting the chance to look around.

The men had decorated her locker, and a card table had been set up in the middle of the room with a small, modest cake on it. Amanda could make out the words 'Happy Birthday Tank' written on top of it in sloppy icing.

"Thanks, guys," she said, finally softening.

"Thank us after you don't get food poisoning from the cake," drawled Sarge from Amanda's left. That got a smirk out of her.

"I'll go get the noob and my folks," she said. "Be right back."

Still shaking her head in fond annoyance, Amanda turned and went back up the stairs to the foyer, flipping on the lights as she went.

"Come on in," Amanda called out the door. "It's all clear."

Her father, grandfather, and John filed in, gazing around them at the barracks. Keith was the first to speak.

"You look irritated," he observed, staring at his daughter's expression. "What's up?"

Amanda sighed, and rolled her eyes. "I almost slit Hellraiser's throat, that's what," she grumbled. "They tried to surprise me, but they had all the lights out, and they startled me, and I reacted."

Keith's eyebrows shot up. "'Hellraiser'?" he inquired as Amanda led them down the stairs.

Amanda nodded. "His real name's Abel Sartorius," she explained. "Codename's Hellraiser, so that's what we all call him." Amanda shrugged. "Took 'em all almost three months to come up with my nickname."

"And that is?" Daniel asked, his blue eyes twinkling.

"Tank," Amanda responded. Her father actually stopped mid-step as his grey eyebrows shot towards his hairline.

"'Tank'?" he repeated. Amanda gave him a long-suffering look.

"They're Marines, not poets, dad," she stated. She swore she saw a ghost of a smile flit across John's face for the briefest of instants. Then it was gone, and she led them the rest of the way down the stairs.

The Marines were waiting for them at the bottom, and Hound and Indian immediately picked Amanda up by her elbows and upper arms, carrying her effortlessly over to the card table. Amanda protested indignantly, but her words held no real force behind them, and she was laughing by the time they put her down.

"Happy birthday, Tank!" Hellraiser called.

Amanda chuckled, and turned to the stairwell.

"Guys, you're neglecting my family and our newest member!" she scolded them. Hellraiser, Hound, and Indian adopted wounded-puppy looks, but Pug was already shepherding the men into the room.

Amanda walked back over to her father, grandfather, and John as part of the squad gathered around the card table expectantly. Sarge came and stood next to Amanda.

"Everybody, this is my father, Keith Halley," Amanda began. "This is my grandfather, Daniel Halley, and the noob over here is Lance Corporal John Grimm." She gestured to each man behind her in turn, and then continued the introductions.

"Dad, grandpa, John," she said, pausing briefly before she said John's name. "This is RRTS squad Six. Sergeant Dwayne Mahonin, codename Sarge."

Sarge saluted. Daniel and John both saluted in return, and then Daniel and Keith shook Sarge's hand.

"Good to meet you," Sarge said to Amanda's father and grandfather. "Amanda's told us a great deal about you."

"Eric Fantom, codename Goat."

Goat nodded from where he was seated on the side of his cot.

"Roark Gannon, codename Destroyer."

"Yo," Destroyer greeted, waving.

"Harry Alewar, codename Hound."

"Hola," Hound called, and lounged back on his cot.

"Abel Sartorius, codename Hellraiser. He's the one I mentioned."

Hellraiser affected shock, and a big grin spread across his face. "Why Tank, I'm honored you should mention me before all else!"

Amanda scowled at him. "Don't even think about it, Hellraiser," she growled. "I told them I almost slit your throat."

He mimed being stabbed in the heart, while Hound howled with laughter at him. "Man, you just got fuckin' _burned!_" Hound choked out.

"And so goeth my heart, my love, and my life," Hellraiser lamented with a fake, wistful British accent.

Amanda rolled her eyes, and moved on.

"Manish Bandi, codename Indian," she continued.

Indian stood up from his cot and gave a bow. "Pleased to meet you," he said, dark brown eyes twinkling good-naturedly.

"Adam Olaf, codename Pug."

Pug stepped forward and shook hands with Keith, Daniel, and John. "I am so excited to finally meet you!" he exclaimed eagerly.

Daniel laughed. "And you, too," he replied.

Amanda smiled. "Glad you approve, Pug," she said dryly.

Pug backed off with a laugh.

"And finally, Dean Portman, codename Portman. He's a lech, so watch out."

Portman sneered at her. "She's a bitch, so watch out," he retorted.

Amanda leveled a steady gaze at him, laying a calming hand on her father's arm as he bristled.

"Go fuck yourself, Portman," she called back casually. "Or my KA-BAR'll do it for you."

The bowie knife was in her hand in a heartbeat.

"Hey, Portman, are you circumcised?" she asked thoughtfully, testing the sharpness of the blade with one thumb whilst she eyed Portman.

Portman blanched, his hand drifting to cover his crotch, and he backed down. The rest of the squad laughed. Daniel observed quietly, and Keith fumed.

"Dad, calm down," Amanda said soothingly. "This is normal between me and Portman."

Keith glowered at Portman. "If he comes near you, I'll kick his ass," Keith growled.

Amanda laughed. "I can do it myself, but I think I'll let you have a crack at him," she chortled.

Sarge patted Amanda on the head at this point. She shook his hand off and scowled up at him for the intrusion.

"Whaaat?" she whined, attempting to sound annoying.

"Happy birthday, Tank," he replied, and then turned to John. "Welcome to the Rapid Response Tactical Squad, rookie. Get settled in, and tomorrow we'll show you the ropes."

Amanda turned to John, also, with a faint shiver. "Party while you can, newbie," she said seriously. "Tomorrow, you're going into hell."

"Tank! Tank!" It was Pug. "Hergekommen!"

"God bless you," Amanda called back, but she came over anyway, followed by her father. Her grandfather chortled as he, Sarge, and John watched her banter with her squad.

"She's a good kid," Sarge said, turning to Daniel. "I've known her since she was ten years old, and I've never met a more loyal, faithful, or well-behaved woman."

Daniel chuckled and turned to Sarge with a smile. "You should see her when she's at home in Missouri," he said. "Biggest turnaround I ever saw."

Sarge raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

"She and my other granddaughter have been best friends since they were small," Daniel explained. "When they get together, and add their other best friend, Amanda Mallory, you have a recipe for insanity." Catching Sarge's disbelieving look, Daniel shook his head. "Not real insanity, just hyperactivity."

"I see," Sarge observed, glancing at his subordinate. Then he turned back to Daniel. "So, that salute you did. Navy?"

"Served during the Cold War," Daniel said, and the pair of them dissolved into conversation from there.

John, mostly forgotten, set down his duffel bag next to the steps and headed back upstairs.

Amanda caught sight of his retreating back, and decided to give him a half hour before she dragged his dark-and-sexy ass back down to the festivities.

* * *

_**2041 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 2100 hours**_

Amanda finally managed to break away from her squad at around nine o'clock, a full forty minutes since her return to barracks. Claiming that she needed some air, Amanda withdrew from the living quarters and headed upstairs. She went outside after checking the kitchen and finding it empty.

As she had expected, John Grimm was sitting on the ground outside the door, leaning against the wall as he stared up at the stars. He didn't look up at her as she closed the door behind her and came to sit next to him, drawing her knees up and resting her elbows on them.

"Did you not hear me, stone-ears?" she asked teasingly after a few moments of silence.

"About what?" he snapped, obviously irritated at having his solitude interrupted. Amanda huffed and glowered over at him.

"About partying while you can," she retorted. "I was serious when I said you'd be going to hell tomorrow. You oughta kick back and relax while you can."

He cast a dark look at her. "What's it look like I'm trying to do?" he asked in a clipped tone.

Amanda looked at him levelly. "It looks to me like you're trying to be an antisocial prick," she stated bluntly. Then she softened her voice and expression. "Come on, I promise it'll be fun."

"No it won't," he groused. "They're loud and obnoxious, and I don't suffer fools very easily."

A heartbeat later, there came a stinging pain over his left ear, and he turned, shocked, to find Amanda glowering at him. She raised one finger at him, putting it up under his nose.

"They may be loud and obnoxious," Amanda seethed, voice a venomous hiss, "but they are most definitely _not_ fools, and don't you _ever_ call them such, or you'll answer to me." She sat back down, but didn't take her burning gaze away from John. "They, unlike some people, realize that each day could be their last, and they make the most out of life while they can."

She jabbed her thumb over her shoulder at the barracks. "That's why they act like they do," she explained firmly. "It's their way of trying to find some semblance of normalcy in this uncertain life."

John gazed at her thoughtfully, his hazel eyes boring into her. She returned his stare with a glare of her own, unfazed by his intensity.

"So stop being a prick and live a little," Amanda finished, and moved to get up.

A hand landed on her own, and she paused.

"Give me a few minutes," John muttered, not meeting her gaze. Amanda stared at him for a second, frowning in displeasure, and then she finally sighed and sat back down, jerking her hand away from his and crossing it over her knees.

Silence reigned between them for a few moments.

"How long has it been?" John's voice finally broke the silence between them. Amanda sighed and lowered her chin onto her knees.

"Ten years?" She shrugged nonchalantly. "Something like that. How's Samantha?"

"Well enough, last I heard," he muttered. Amanda blinked at the sudden vehemence in his voice, and cast him a sidelong glance.

"You two had a falling-out?" she inquired, genuinely curious.

"You could say that," he whispered bitterly. Amanda studied him in silence for a moment, and then she looked up at the sky.

"How would you feel about coming to Missouri with me for the Fourth of July?" she asked him. "My parents and I are inviting the squad out."

He looked at her askance, and Amanda smiled slighly at him. "You don't have to answer right _now,_" she drawled.

"Give me some time," he pleaded with her. Amanda knew, somehow, that he was not just asking about more time to decide on the trip.

"No problem," she said, and settled back to watch the stars with him.

Somehow, they seemed to be shining brighter than they had before.

* * *

_Disclaimer: I don't own Doom or anything related to it. I only own the characters you don't recognize._

_Okay, I've reposted this after accidentally making a duplicate chapter 7. This should be the right one._

_Thanks for sticking with me!_

_Next chapter will be posted 8-24-09._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	9. 2041 AD Ontario Airport 1000 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum**_

_**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

_"__De duobus malis, minus est semper eligendum. Meaning 'Of two evils, the lesser is always to be chosen'____.__"_  
-_From __The Complete Idiot's Guide to Learning Latin_

_**Chapter 8.**_

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_**2041 A.D. - Ontario International Airport, Ontario, California - 1000 hours**_

Amanda hugged and kissed her father and grandfather goodbye, and then waited and watched as they entered the atrium of the airport. It was the Sunday after her birthday, and two of the most precious people in her life were flying home, which was well over a thousand miles away.

Amanda watched until they were out of sight. Then she sighed and returned to the Humvee, which Sarge had let her borrow again for this purpose. She clambered in and started the engine, not acknowledging the silent figure to her right save for a nod.

The ride back to the barracks was a quiet one. In fact, an hour passed without either of them speaking. However, when the silence was broken, he was the one to break it.

"They're very nice people." Amanda blinked and looked over at John. He just kept his eyes straight forward, and he had his right knee drawn up close to his chest, his elbow resting on his knee.

"Who, dad and grandpa?" she inquired, and then snorted. "You haven't seen them when they're angry, yet."

"It must be nice," he muttered. Amanda cast him another sidelong glance.

"What must be nice?"

He finally looked over at her, and Amanda was surprised to see a profound sadness in his gaze for an instant before his emotions were barricaded behind a steel wall.

"Having a family to return to," he said quietly. They fell silent again, each lost in their own thoughts. It was several minutes before either spoke.

"You have a family," Amanda stated. Her peripheral vision caught John looking over at her, and she glanced at him with a smile.

"The squad is your family, now," she explained. "They are the ones you eat with, live with, breathe with, fight with. They are the ones with whom you will share your life, until you die or they die, or until you leave the service."

She paused so that she could make the turn down the lane that would take them to the barracks.

"The squad is your family," she repeated. "You look out for them, and they'll look out for you. They're the ones you can count on to save your neck in a firefight, and the ones who'll cheer you up when you're feeling down." She paused again, thoughtful. "Well, maybe not Portman."

John snorted, as close to laughter as Amanda had heard him get in the three days that he had been with the team. "Yeah," he muttered, "he'll just make some lewd comment or other."

Amanda shrugged. "So he's a prick," she drawled in a lazy, unconcerned manner. "You get used to him after a while."

They were silent for a few more long minutes.

"Hey, John?"

"Hmm?"

"When's your birthday?"

He glanced at her. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," she replied. "I'm not privy to the files of recruits. They say it helps us bond more if we have to ask each other."

He was silent for a second. "July seventh."

Amanda glanced at him. "Wow, precisely five months after mine, hmm?"

"...Yeah."

Another silence reigned, but it was a comfortable one. As they turned down the final stretch of the lane, Amanda suddenly spoke again.

"You know," she said nonchalantly. "When we met all those years ago, there was something about you and Samantha that just intrigued me, reminded me..."

She trailed off, and John looked over at her. Amanda could sense that he was slightly on edge from hearing his sister mentioned.

"Reminded you of what?" he prompted. Amanda blinked in surprise that he was willing to continue with the conversation. She briefly looked over at him.

"You reminded me of winter," she explained, "and Samantha reminded me of the summer. Kind of yin and yang-ish, if I should put it that way, only you were more cold and dark, where she was warm and light. You know what I'm talking about?"

There was a long pause.

"So which do you like better, winter or summer?" he asked. As they pulled into the garage, Amanda parked the Humvee and looked over at him with a smile.

"I've always liked winter better," was all she would say.

* * *

_**2041 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 0200 hours**_

Amanda was a light sleeper. It had not always been so; in fact, until she had turned seventeen she could have slept through an earthquake. However, since joining the Marine Corps and the subsequent training, she always woke at the slightest sound or sensation.

So it was that when a grunt from the bunk above hers sounded in the barracks, Amanda jerked awake with a gasp, her eyes flying open and her hand shooting out to grasp a nonexistent throat. When she realized that nobody was attacking her, Amanda sighed and relaxed back into her pillow. Groggily, she ran her hand over her face.

Something wet and cold underneath her nose and smeared across her cheek, however, stopped her and put her on edge. Breathing carefully, Amanda brought her wet hand to her nose to sniff it. She found her nose to be full of liquid.

"Ah, fuck!" Amanda swore quietly, and hastily threw off her blanket and all but ran to the bathroom, not bothering to hide her passage in her rush. She kept her hand cupped under her nose the whole time that she was stumbling from her cot to the communal locker room, whose door was set in the wall beside the stairs.

Once she entered the locker room, Amanda flipped on the lights and made a beeline for one of the many sinks that lined the wall, and wrenched on the faucet. Cold water started flowing immediately. Swearing worse than a sailor on a stormy sea, Amanda shakily cupped her blood-coated hands underneath the water and scrubbed them off.

The door to the locker room swung open again a second later, admitting John and Goat. Amanda glanced up at them with wide eyes, startled by their sudden entrance.

"Oh, shit!" she swore breathlessly, her voice slightly nasal. "Did I wake you?"

His hazel eyes were wide as John crossed the room over to her.

"No shit, Sherlock," he replied. His hands were gentle as he took her chin and tilted her face up towards the light. Amanda brushed him off, turning back to the faucet.

"What happened?" Goat asked, his deep voice tinged faintly with concern. He, too, came to join them at the sink as Amanda splashed water onto her face. It ran back down the drain colored red-orange.

"Nosebleed," Amanda explained thickly. "Happens sometimes, when I least expect it." She glanced at the men out of the corner of her eye, scrubbing the blood off of her cheeks and jaw even as more ran down her face to pool in the dip of her lips and drip off her chin.

"No biggie," she told them, trying to hide her awkward embarrassment. "Now could you leave me to clean myself up in peace?" She straightened to grab a towel, and revealed that the front of her loose white tank was splashed with red.

Goat leveled a solemn look at her, but he left without further prompting. John, on the other hand, shook his head.

"Fuck, Amanda," he muttered, grabbing another towel from the rack. Amanda sighed, tired out from the long day and the interruption of her sleep, and allowed him to dab the rest of the blood off of her face and neck.

"Fuck me running backwards through the woods with a hedgehog," she grumbled. He paused to give her an incredulous look, and she waved it off. "Something I picked up from my DI back at Pendleton. You _really_ don'twanna know."

He shook his head and continued on to her neck, lifting her chin up for better access. "Shit, I'd hate to see what your pillow looks like right now," he mumbled.

"Probably red," she replied softly. She tried to convince herself that the shivers running down her spine were from blood loss. Amanda took a deep breath that trembled slightly as she drew it in.

"Listen," she said, voice gaining strength. "You need to go back to bed. You're going to _need_ your rest, and if you don't get it, you'll regret it, at least until you get used to how things work 'round here."

John ignored her, dampening his makeshift washcloth and dragging it across her collarbone. Then he grabbed the other one out of her hand and placed it over her nose before grabbing her hand and planting it on top of the towel.

"Hold that there, would you?" he asked, but didn't wait for an answer. Amanda heaved a sigh, but did as she was told, pinching the bridge of her nose through the towel.

"What are you, a fucking EMT?" Amanda tried to lighten the mood with a joke, but John just glanced up at her for an instant before he went back to wiping the blood from her skin. He finished a second later. John stepped back to admire his handiwork, and Amanda glared at him when his gaze stopped at her chest.

"What?" she prompted, putting her free hand on her hip. "Listen, I know my shirt is bloody and all that shit, but you don't have to _stare_ at my fucking _boobs_."

John gave a start, his hazel eyes snapping upward to her face. She glared at him.

"They're not that impressive, anyway. If you really wanna help, you can go out and go back to sleep, you dumbass," she growled. "I was damn fucking serious when I said you'll need your fucking rest."

He made no motion to do so, and that was when Amanda got angry.

"I'm not made of fucking _porcelain_, you dickwad!" she exclaimed, her voice rising in volume.

John frowned at her. "I was just trying to help."

"I don't _need_ your fucking _help!_" she growled, exasperated. "I _told_ you as much when you first came in this fucking room! I'm a _Marine_. I am _not_ fucking _helpless!_"

Even as she said these things, Amanda was inwardly pleading with him to not listen to her, to see past her rough exterior. John wasn't a psychologist, however. He wasn't familiar with female thinking patterns.

He frowned further, and turned to go. Amanda sighed, and knew that she shouldn't have snapped at him.

"Listen," she said reluctantly, and John paused. "Come here."

John turned back to face her, but didn't approach.

"I know you were trying to help," Amanda said, and prayed that she didn't botch this up. "If I was bleeding from a gunshot wound or something, then I would welcome your help, probably even more than Sarge or Goat's. But this is just a nosebleed, John. I've been dealing with them since I was seven years old."

"You're a Marine," John shot back. "You can take care of yourself."

Amanda rolled her eyes. "_Now_ who's being difficult?" she teased, arching one chocolate eyebrow. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that I don't really mind you helping me. Like I said, though, you're new 'round here, and Sarge'll _murder_ you in training tomorrow if you're even the least bit drowsy or lagging."

Amanda finally tilted her head down so that she could look him square in the eye, dead serious.

"The Rapid Response Tactical Squad wasn't nicknamed the Death Squad on a whim," she said, her voice the gravest it had been in years. "It's harder than _anything_ you've ever done before, John, and Sarge shows no mercy. I only had Goat to look out for me when I started here, but that was because he knew me from before."

John wouldn't meet her eyes. "So what you're saying is that you're looking out for me," he surmised.

"Yes." Her voice was firm, decisive. Amanda crossed the room, keeping the towel clenched over her nose, and placed two fingers underneath his chin. He finally locked gazes with her.

"Rookies in this squad either get washed out or they get dead, if they don't have someone to help them make the transition," Amanda said. "I've been on one mission in the three months that I've been here."

"Which one was that?"

Amanda visibly hesitated at this question, her eyes growing dark.

"The Christmas Day Massacre," she replied at long last, her voice subdued. John recoiled a bit in shock and surprise.

The Christmas Day Massacre of 2040 had made headlines for weeks as one of the bloodiest conflicts Stateside since the September 11th bombings of 2001. A group of seventy-five terrorists had rushed into the airport at San Francisco and killed over four hundred people. RRTS Six had been called in, and by the time the dust settled, over three hundred people were wounded, mainly by the terrorists, and four hundred and fifty people had been killed.

There had only been two casualties on the side of the RRTS: a gunshot wound to the leg sustained by Goat and three cracked ribs on the part of Lance Corporal Amanda Halley.

"Yeah," Amanda said quietly. "Goat got shot in the leg, and I got a few cracked ribs when a fucking bullet hit me in the fucking chest. Thankfully, my vest stopped it. But you know _why_ those casualties happened?"

John didn't answer verbally, but his hard look told her that he wanted an answer.

"They happened because I got fucking _careless_," Amanda stated. "I was lining up a shot at a terrorist twenty meters at one o'clock, and I forgot to cover Goat. He got shot by a motherfucker at nine o'clock, and he fell into me and knocked me over. Then I took a bullet to the chest on the way down."

Amanda took a breath. "Since then I've learned my lessons well," she said. "But the only reason I survived that mission was because of Goat and what he taught me during the drills that Sarge puts us through. So I'm taking you under my wing."

She prodded him in the chest. "For the next week, you do _what_ I tell you to, _when_ I tell you to, and _how_ I tell you to," Amanda told John. "The only time you act out on your own is if we get a mission, and even then, you stick to me like a fuckin' _tumor_. Capiche?"

"Whatever you say, DI," John replied, the bite of sarcasm thick on the last two words. The next second, he found himself yanked down to Amanda's level, her hand fisted in the front of his tank top.

"And another thing," she growled, her eyes narrowed in a glare as she finally took the bloody towel away from her nose. "I don't take _shit_ offa _nobody_."

She let that hang in the air for a moment to make sure her point got across. Then Amanda released him, and continued, "I know what kind of drugs newbies use to calm their nerves for their first mission. If I ever, _ever_ find you high on something, I'll shoot you so full of goddamn holes so fucking fast you won't know what motherfucking sonuvabitch hit you 'til you're in hell wondering _where_ the fuck you are and _what_ the fuck smells like burning flesh."

And she meant it, too.

With a warning glare, Amanda turned to go back to the sink and check on her nose. Silence hovered between them, coiled like a stalking cat. Then John broke it, his voice quiet.

"So you wouldn't mind if I took you up on your offer?"

Amanda blinked, and then turned to him. Her nose had finally stopped bleeding, but her lips and mouth were stained red.

"Which offer was that, again?" she prompted. John rolled his eyes.

"Fourth of July," he supplied. Amanda raised her eyebrows in realization, and then she smiled.

"Hope you're not scared of or allergic to dogs and cats," she said. "One of our dogs weighs a hundred and thirty pounds and is about three and a half feet tall at the shoulder."

"Ah," John said, coming over to lean against the sink to Amanda's left. "Mastiff?"

"Nah, Alaskan Malamute."

"Just keep the cats away from me, and we'll do fine."

Amanda grinned, wetting a corner of her towel and using to scrub the remaining blood off of her face. "Scared?"

John shrugged nonchalantly. "I've gotten enough scars on my hands without adding a few cat scratches to the collection."

"They don't hurt so bad if you clean 'em out with peroxide right after," Amanda said with a raised eyebrow.

"My point still stands."

"I think you'll get along just fine." She paused. "Just don't wear a hat or sunglasses inside until our smaller dog gets used to you."

John cast her a sidelong glance. "Why?"

"Cause she'll make enough racket to raise the dead, that's why," Amanda said, carefully dabbing the blood off from under her nose. "Dad threw her in our pool when she was a puppy. She's been afraid of water ever since, and since he was wearing a hat and sunglasses when he did it, she hates men."

"Who wear hats and sunglasses, right?"

"Mostly," Amanda conceded. "But there are some men that she just hates."

"What kind of dog is she?"

"Black lab mix."

John glanced at her, and Amanda caught the incredulity in his gaze. She sighed a long-suffering sigh.

"I _know_. It's just my family's luck that we got the _only_ black lab in the _world_ who _abhors_ _water_."

* * *

_Disclaimer: Don't own it._

_I am so sorry for the incredibly long wait. I got a shitload of homework from my math teacher last weekend, and the weekend before that, I was so absorbed trying to get things done that I totally forgot that it was Monday until Thursday had already passed. I hope that that makes sense, but my point is that I'm really, REALLY sorry! So, to make up for it, I've got some news for you._

_This chapter is only part 1 of today's double-feature._

_Yes, two- count 'em, TWO- chapters are coming today. I really hope you like them._

_...Am I the only one concerned for the state of Amanda's sanity? Just with the way that she and John go back and forth from about-to-tear-each-other's-throats-out to hey-you're-my-best-buddy-here in about thirty seconds flat? Yeah, I'm a little concerned, myself, and Amanda is MY character. O.o ...Is it bad that my own character scares me at times?_

_Okay, that's enough of my rant for this chapter._

_Thanks big time to everybody who's been reviewing. I've been slacking on that stuff, sorry. Shout-outs go to: EnigmaticPseudonym, askita, Millenia-the-wings-of-valmar, and angel19872006. To answer some questions: We won't be getting to the movie events for a good many chapters, so don't worry about me killing her off just yet. And also, askita asked about the eventual pairings, or if this is a life-and-times fic. It's a little bit of both, but the next chapter will give a huge hint toward the eventual pairings._

_Next chapter will be posted in approximately five minutes._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	10. 2041 AD RRTS Barracks 1400 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum**_

_**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

_"I can't fight this feeling any longer, and yet I'm still afraid to let it flow. What started out as friendship, has grown stronger. I only wish I had the strength to let it show..." __  
-REO Speedwagon, 'Can't Fight This Feeling'_

_**Chapter 9.**_

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_**2041 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 1400 hours**_

Amanda growled. Her eyes flashed as she stared down her opponent. His expression was set in a scowl of determination as they circled each other.

Someone shouted something, and they clashed, hands and feet flying everywhere as each one of them tried to one-up the other.

Amanda's open palm flashed out, aiming for his nose, and he blocked it. She was already attacking again, her right leg launching in a kick that would have met his stomach had he not dodged to the side. Growling, Amanda resorted to a brawling tactic that she had learned from Sarge, and drove her shoulder into her opponent's bared abdomen.

He went down, and Amanda immediately capitalized on her advantage, attempting to drive a heel kick into his gut. He rolled out of the way, and she hurriedly withdrew her foot to keep him from even getting the opportunity to gain an advantage. Truthfully, her only real advantage in this fight was her smaller size.

This meant that Amanda made a smaller target, and was harder to catch.

After all, she wasn't naturally swift, or agile. In fact, Amanda was rather slow, especially compared to her father, who had taught her most of what she knew about hand-to-hand combat. She was often slow to think on her feet when challenged intellectually, and when challenged physically, she usually reacted on blind instinct. Her only advantage was her relative slightness.

Her opponent lashed out with a fist, aiming for her face. Amanda didn't think, only reacted. She shifted her stance, swept her right arm out in front of her, blocking the strike. Her forearm ran along the inside of his forearm, knocking the blow wide, and she leaned to her left when his fist headed for her right shoulder. She immediately began to withdraw her arm, flipping her palm down to grip his elbow.

Pulling on him to take his balance, she drove her knee up into his gut.

To his credit, Amanda's opponent didn't do more than grunt before he grabbed her around her middle with one arm and threw her to the ground. Amanda's breath left her in a whoosh as she hit the mat face-down, and a second later, she felt herself pinned, a heavy body landing on top of her.

"Give up?" His voice was husky and breathless from the exertion. She didn't reply.

Amanda's mind raced as she tried to figure out a way out of this position. Her right arm was trapped underneath her chest, bent so that her wrist rested between her breasts. She could still move her right leg some, though.

In a heartbeat, Amanda levered herself up with her right knee, got her right arm free, and drove her elbow back into his stomach.

He fell off of her with a breathless grunt, and Amanda rolled away, scrambling to her feet.

Amanda eyed her adversary, noting how his shirtless chest gleamed with a thin sheen of sweat.

_Sweat. It makes skin slick. You won't be able to get a good grip on him, and you're almost fully clothed, so he can grab you._

His hair was short, tousled from the motions of their fight.

_Short hair on physical combatants is good if it works in your favor. However, you've got long hair. He can grab it, it can get in your eyes, get in your way. He can use it to strangle you. He has short hair. You can grab it, but he'll be able to pull it away without much damage. It won't get in his eyes. It'll stay out of his way. You can't use it to strangle him._

There was a rapidly-forming bruise on his abdomen where she had hit him repeatedly.

_Use prior injuries to your advantage, hit 'em as hard as you can, as many times as you can. Eventually the pain will become unbearable enough that they'll leave you alone._

Amanda took stock of herself.

_Know your own condition. If you are too injured to continue the fight, then find some way to distance yourself from your enemy in order to recuperate. If you can't use your arms, use your legs. If you can't use your legs, use your arms. If you can't use either of them, use your head. Use your fingernails, your teeth, any weapon you can find._

She had already taken a hard knock to her arm; it had been dislocated earlier during their fight, but she had popped it back into place after putting him on the mat with a kick to his inner thigh near his crotch. Her right leg was bruising where he had driven his elbow into her thigh. She was sure that she had a rather colorful bruise forming on her jaw where he had hit it with his forehead some time before.

Amanda realized that they'd only been fighting for around five minutes.

_Don't let a fight drag on too long if you can help it. The longer a fight goes on for, the more tired you'll get, and the more opportunities you'll have to make mistakes that could get you killed._

She glanced at her surroundings as her opponent lumbered to his feet.

_Use your environment to your advantage. If you see something that can help you, use it. Use it without mercy or remorse._

They were fighting in a gym environment, with mats below them and very little in the way of obstacles. While this was good in the sense that Amanda couldn't trip over anything, this also worked for her opponent. She couldn't seek cover, either.

Her opponent was breathing heavily, but he rushed her and tried to grab her.

The time for thought was over.

Amanda ducked out of his hold, drove her shoulder into his gut as hard as she could, and then followed up with an elbow to his kidneys.

He grunted, and dropped like a sack of potatoes. However, he wasn't finished, yet. He swept a leg out, a mere inch from the mat, and Amanda had to jump to keep from getting her feet knocked out from under her, which would put her at a distinct disadvantage. It was to her dismay when his other foot suddenly flashed up and kicked her in her chest hard enough that she flew a few feet to her right before she landed with a heavy thud on the mat.

It was also to her horror when she found that she could no longer breathe.

Her brandy-brown eyes went wide in instinctive panic as she tried to suck in a breath. But her muscles wouldn't cooperate, paralyzed by the kick. Amanda tried to calm herself, tried to tell herself that panicking would only deplete her oxygen supply faster. She tried to tell her body to get up, get _up_, that she still had an enemy who would kill her if she didn't get up and kill him first.

It worked.

Amanda struggled to her feet, still trying to get her lungs to work. She tasted blood. Amanda knew that she had maybe two minutes before she passed out from lack of oxygen, at least if she couldn't start breathing again soon.

Her opponent, however, was either unaware or uncaring of her plight, and got to his feet, immediately coming at Amanda with a right hook that would've landed her on the floor had she not dodged backwards. She retaliated with an uppercut that landed on her adversary's jaw. Amanda winced as she felt something give, but the adrenaline in her blood and the foggy feeling that the lack of oxygen was giving her dulled the pain.

She threw all of her body weight into the palm-heel strike that she sent into her opponent's belly.

He dropped again, and didn't get back up.

Amanda used the break in the fight to back off, clutching her neck and chest. Her mouth hung open, her eyes were wide and watering. Her knees shook, and she couldn't remain standing.

Black hovered at the edges of her vision, and she knelt on the floor, trying to force air into her lungs. She saw her opponent stir, heard him groan and look at her. Amanda saw his hazel eyes study her, and then saw them widen in horror.

"She's not breathing!" she heard him exclaim, and then there came several shouts.

Aside from her, there was only one man in the room who was relatively skilled in the medical arts.

Amanda's opponent struggled to his feet and staggered over to her before he dropped to his knees in front of her. She stared at him with wide, panicked eyes.

John Grimm stared back calmly, though beneath his placid exterior there lurked a horror and a fear akin to hers.

"Can you breathe?" he asked as the rest of the Rapid Response Tactical Squad gathered around them anxiously.

Amanda shook her head, her mouth opening and closing as she tried in vain to gulp down oxygen.

"Shit, man! She's turning blue!" Amanda was not sure who said this, but she vaguely thought that it must have been Hound or Indian. That was until the lack of oxygen sapped her strength, and she could no longer hold herself up.

She collapsed across the mat, her eyes still wide and staring as a tear trickled down each cheek.

_I don't want to die. Not here, not now, not when it can be prevented. I don't want to die in a training accident._

That was what her eyes told her teammates when her voice couldn't.

"Fuck!" John swore, and then he acted quickly. "Goat!"

Goat immediately knelt next to Amanda, and together the two men turned her onto her back. Goat balled up his hands, placed them on her sternum, and prepared to press down. John, in the meanwhile, pinched Amanda's nose shut and tilted her head up.

When Goat was ready, John took a deep breath, lowered his mouth to Amanda's, and breathed out once. Twice.

Amanda's mind immediately began whirling as the introduction of new oxygen into her body sharpened her senses. Her neurons began firing, traveling down her spine to her muscles.

Goat pressed down on her sternum, and the breath that John had given her left Amanda's chest in a whoosh. A second later, John's lips were upon hers again, and he was filling her lungs with fresh oxygen once more.

It was then that the muscles of Amanda's chest remembered how to work, and she jerked away as she coughed jarringly, instinctively turning on her side so that she could breathe easier. John's palms on her back and Goat's hands gripping her shoulder steadied her as her body convulsed and she gasped heavily, her harsh wheezing and gasping punctuated by hacking coughs that, several times, had Amanda convinced that she was going to vomit.

When her breathing finally calmed almost five minutes later, Amanda simply laid there, her mind foggy with exhaustion and shock.

"Tank?" It was Sarge. "Tank, do you copy? Amanda?"

It took a second to register.

"Loud... and... clear," Amanda wheezed between heavy breaths.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" A hand appeared in front of her face, and Amanda managed to muster the energy to scowl up at the owner of the offending appendage.

"Go... fuck... yourself," she rasped. "I don't... have a... fucking... concussion."

"Yep, she's going to be just fine." It was Hellraiser. Amanda just shakily gave him a one-fingered salute.

Then she heard Sarge begin to lay into John about what had happened. Amanda finally got enough oxygen back into her that she was able to lever herself into a sitting position, and drew her knees up enough that she could lean on them.

"Not his fault," she croaked. Sarge quieted, and they all stared down at her.

"You almost fucking died!" Pug exclaimed. He was more upset than Amanda had ever seen him. His use of vulgar language only drove that point home further.

"Not his fault," Amanda repeated, her voice growing stronger as the seconds passed. "Got careless."

"Why didn't you call the fight when you stopped breathing?" demanded John. Amanda waved a hand vaguely, putting her head between her knees and drawing several deep breaths.

"Real enemy wouldn't wait," she panted. "Wouldn't help. Would have ta take 'em out 'fore I could try to breathe again. Didn't do that, they'd kill me."

There was silence for a second. Then Sarge sighed exasperatedly, and Amanda looked up to see him standing in front of her, looking down at her with a mixture of disapproval, concern, and pride.

"Alright, men, hit the showers." It was an order. "Tank, John, get to the med bay and get a check-up from Caboose."

"Yes, sir," they chorused. Then the men filed out of the room. John, however, stayed behind after even Goat left with a final concerned glance to her.

Amanda looked up at John when she sensed him stand and move around to linger in front of her.

His hazel eyes were filled with guilt and remorse as well as concern for her.

"Are you sure you're going to be okay?" he asked, crouching on the balls of his feet so that he could look her properly in the eye. Amanda gave him a shaky smile.

"Pretty sure," she rasped. She unfolded herself from her hunched-over position and took a deep breath, grimacing when she felt pain in her sternum. "I think you fractured one of my ribs and my hand, though, iron jaw."

John winced in sympathetic pain, and then stood up again. Amanda looked up at him, and then stared at his hand when he extended it to her.

"Come on," he said. "We'd better go get you checked out if you've got some broken bones."

Amanda blinked up at him for a moment. Then she smiled tentatively, and took his hand in her good one.

Something warm blossomed in her chest at the contact, and she knew that it wasn't blood from an injury. No, this was something much more completing, much more fulfilling, much more dangerous.

It was then that Amanda realized that, over the two and a half months that John Grimm had been with RRTS Six, he had come to grow on her, even more than the rest of them had. It was then that Amanda discovered that what she felt for John went far beyond simple friendship and camaraderie, and that what she felt for him didn't stem from him saving her life just a few minutes ago.

It was then that Amanda knew, without a doubt, that she had fallen completely, irresistibly, and irrevocably in love with John Grimm.

And there was nothing that she could do about it...

...except keep it hidden.

* * *

_Disclaimer: Don't own it._

_I know that this one's kind of short, but the next one's going to be extra long, otherwise I would've continued with my usual method of posting two chapters in one. Hope you liked this one, though. It was the first good fight scene I had written in forever. I'm not entirely sure if partial paralysis could occur from being kicked too hard in the chest; probably not. I'm going on my own experience. I've only been hit in the solar plexus once, and it was enough to completely steal my wind for a good five minutes. Couldn't move, couldn't breathe... it was a scary feeling._

_Ahem._

_The next chapter is kind of gory, just to warn you. It's their first real mission together. I'm not sure if I got all the facts right, but I did my best._

_Next chapter will be posted 9-7-09._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	11. 2041 AD RRTS Barracks 0430 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum**_

_**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_'__Nil sine magno labore' means 'Nothing without great effort'.__"  
-Brooklyn College Motto_

_**Chapter 10.**_

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_**2041 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 0430 hours**_

_"You know, you don't have to try to keep pace with the rest of us right now if you're not feeling up to it." She purposefully made her tone teasing, maybe even a little condescending._

_John's eyes flashed, rising to the bait even as he redoubled his pace. "I can do this," he panted. "'M not... gonna get out-done by a girl!"_

_Amanda smirked. "Is that a challenge I hear?"_

_John loped ahead of her a couple of paces. "Move your ass before I leave you behind!"_

_Amanda rolled her eyes good-naturedly, feeling a hint of friendly affection for the dark-haired man. She put on a burst of speed and bounded forward, outstripping John with no little difficulty due to his longer stride._

_"See if you can keep up without puking," she called back. The gauntlet had been thrown. Now there only remained to be seen whether or not John would rise to the bait._

_He did not disappoint._

_They raced each other over the dusty ground, passing the rest of the group. Amanda grinned and waved at Sarge as she zipped by, and he just chuckled, continuing in his steady jog while John just barely nodded to his commanding officer before he loped past. Sarge just let them do it, knowing that by pushing each other to do better, they would both better themselves._

_John lasted a good ten minutes before Amanda noticed that he had fallen behind. She glanced back at him over her shoulder, seeing him running almost doubled over. A slight pang of concern shot through her stomach, and she slowed her pace until she finally stopped._

_Behind her, John stumbled a couple more paces before he scrambled to the side of the path and became violently ill. Amanda felt nausea stirring in her own gut and almost looked away. But then she saw the way that John's arms were shaking. She couldn't just leave him alone._

_Amanda jogged back the way she had come and placed her hands on his shoulders, offering him her silent support._

_When John finally stopped throwing up, Amanda helped him move to sit on a rock that lined the trail._

_"Put your head between your knees," she instructed. John took a deep, shaky breath and did as he was told, his lungs heaving in quick gasps. Occasionally, he would cough, deep, hacking coughs that made it sound like he was going to vomit again. However, he managed to keep it all down. Amanda just knelt next to him, rubbing small circles on his back between his shoulder blades._

_"You gonna be okay?" she queried after a long few moments. He drew another deep breath and nodded._

_"Good." Amanda paused, looking contemplatively at the back of his head. "You didn't have to push yourself so hard, you know. I really would've slowed down if you'd told me you were getting overheated."_

_John didn't answer, but lifted his head enough to give her a vehement glare nonetheless. Amanda backed down, knowing that the comment had stung his already-sore ego._

_Still, she would have to have a short talk with him later._

_---_

Amanda blinked slowly as the bottom of John's bunk swam into view. Sighing, she sat up slowly and glanced at the digital clock on the wall. It was nearly four forty-five in the morning.

Her mind drifted back to her dream.

That incident had occurred Reaper's third full day with the squad, the Monday after Amanda's twenty-first birthday. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday had been leave days (which Amanda had conveniently forgotten about), and so they hadn't had to go for one of their morning runs. That had been Reaper's first full-day training session with them. He had overestimated his endurance, ended up getting sick, and then had been required to rest for a half-hour before Amanda would let him run again. Portman had laughed his ass off.

Recalling the glare that Reaper had given her, Amanda also realized something else. From their reunion until the current time, she had been almost bi-polar in her treatment of John. She knew that he was confused as to where he stood with her.

But it wasn't something that was easily controlled by her. Amanda could be a positively acerbic bitch at one moment, and then the next she had the tendency to gentle her words.

She chalked it up to the indecisive half of her.

After all, it wasn't her fault that she didn't think before she spoke...

...Okay, maybe it was.

That little fact admitted, Amanda knew that she would have to talk to him and tell him what she really thought. She decided that she would have to do it soon, before she lost her nerve.

...Of course, it would help if he was actually awake. As it was, it was a half-hour or so too early for the rest of the squad to even be stirring.

Rolling her eyes, she quietly got out of bed and padded over to the stairwell, her bare feet making little to no noise on the cement floor or the metal staircase. It only took her a total of a minute and a half to reach the kitchen.

To her surprise, John was seated at the kitchen table, contemplating a glass of water that was sitting on the table in front of him. He glanced up at her as she entered, but did little other than stare sullenly at her. Amanda was struck by how disgruntled and depressed he looked. Sighing uneasily, she crossed the kitchen to the sink, pulled down a glass, and filled it from the tap.

Then she sat down at the table across from John.

Taking a sip, Amanda met his gaze over the rim of her cup. He returned her stare grimly, and the look in his eyes was a combination of kicked-puppy-pout and old-man-who-has-seen-way-too-much-of-life-stare.

"Did you come to give me another lecture?" he questioned. Amanda blinked in surprise, setting the glass down in front of her.

"Why would I do that?" she asked, purely curious. She watched John grit his teeth.

"Because that's all you've been doing since I came to the team!" he snapped. Amanda was surprised by this display of temper, but she was unable to comment before he continued on his tirade.

"If you're not lecturing me about wanting my space, then you're telling me to leave you alone because you can take care of yourself!" he exclaimed. Amanda frowned, realizing that he was only now lashing out for a few months' worth of bottled emotions. "Then, after you bark at me to fuck off, you tell me to come back and you don't even have the decency to apologize for being a bitch!"

He took a swig of his water and then set the glass heavily down on the table, wrenching the volume of his voice back down before he woke Sarge, whose room was just down the hall.

"You're blowing hot and cold, Amanda, and I don't like it," he growled. Amanda remained silent. "You acted like you didn't know me when we were reunited, and then after that, you seemed like you remembered me, like you actually cared. But when I tried to express worry over you after you got that nosebleed, you got defensive and you pushed me away!"

He glared icily at her. Amanda was struck, not for the first time, by the notion that he could seem like a desert and the arctic all at once.

"Answer me this," he ground out. "Do you or do you not want to have any kind of relationship with me aside from animosity?"

Amanda blinked again at the sudden question, and leaned back from the table, studying him in a very Sarge-like manner.

John had half-stood during his tirade, towering over her. He was wearing only a pair of flannel drawstring pajama pants, his dark hair was mussed from sleep, and his hazel eyes were glinting like chips of flint from his angry face.

"Sit down, John," she instructed softly. John's glare intensified, and Amanda felt a pang of sadness that she had caused this bitterness in him.

"I think I'll stand, thanks," he hissed. Amanda sighed, and gave him an imploring look.

"Please sit down?" she asked calmly. No, she totally did _not_ just whine. No way.

_Yeah, right. Keep lying to yourself and you might believe it._

"This's gonna be difficult enough for me to say without you standing like that and making me lose my jackrabbit of thought," Amanda said seriously. She watched John blink at her, his jaw lowering almost comically.

"'Jackrabbit of thought'?" he repeated in disbelief. Thankfully, he sat down. Amanda cast him a balefully grateful glance.

"ADD isn't exactly conducive to a straight line of thought," she muttered. Leaning forward again, she sighed, closed her eyes, and rubbed her temples, trying to think straight this early in the morning about a person she usually had trouble even being coherent and _normal_ around.

When she had finally gathered her notions into a halfway-relevant order, she spoke.

"First of all, I owe you an apology. A huge, hulking, gigantic tyrannosaurus Rex of an apology." She cracked open an eye to give him a deadpan look. "And I mean that in the most sincere way possible. I didn't mean to alienate you, John, in any way, shape, or form."

She took a deep breath, seeing him nod his head slightly in half-hearted acceptance. He wanted an explanation more than her apologies.

"I'm sorry to say that speaking has never been my strong point," she continued. "And sometimes, when I'm talking to you, I tend to slip into what Sarge and the others have deemed 'teacher mode'. Meaning that, yes, I lecture. It's a carry-over from my babysitting days that I've never been able to shake, and I know that it gets on a lot of people's nerves."

He scowled. "I usually don't take that kind of crap from anybody but my commander. You're lucky I haven't snapped before now."

"Why haven't you?" Amanda tossed back. John gritted his teeth.

"Because I was trying to keep my patience and find something worth liking in that icy shell that you call a personality," he spat. The words were spoken in hasty frustration, but Amanda winced nonetheless.

_Ouch, that one hurt._

Then she found that she just had to chuckle about it. John's affronted look grew angry.

"What the fuck are you laughing for?" he demanded. Amanda moved one hand around to lean her forehead into her palm, and waved him down with her other.

"I'm sorry," she said a few seconds later, when she had composed herself marginally. She finally looked back up at him, and there was more than a hint of pride and affection in her gaze.

"Good job, John," she said, only half-joking. "Your hazing process is nearly complete."

He blinked at her for a second, floored, before he grew angry again. No, not just angry. Livid.

"You mean to tell me that this was a fucking _test?!_" he snapped. Amanda heard the strain in his voice as he tried to refrain from shouting at her, and she became serious again. Standing, she left her glass of water on the table and moved to the door.

"_Don't you walk away from me!_" The command was only barely less than a yell.

"I'm not," she replied calmly. "Come on, we're taking this outside."

She didn't give him the chance to reply or demand that she stay, heading quickly for the door in the atrium of the barracks. She opened the partition and stepped out into the cool, predawn air. The ground was rough and dusty beneath the soles of her bare feet, but Amanda had other, more important things on her mind. Things like settling this issue between her and John.

He had, indeed, followed her, and he allowed the door to close of its own accord as he joined her out in the twilight.

"I can't fucking _believe_ you!" he yelled as soon as the door was shut. On one hand, Amanda was glad to see that he was finally letting his emotions out. On the other, she was a little intimidated. It was only now that she remembered exactly _how_ tall John was, and that he outweighed her by a good forty pounds or so, and that his anger could very easily turn physical.

"John, I want you to listen to me," Amanda said calmly. John whirled on her, and Amanda's breath left her lungs in a whoosh as she was suddenly pinned against the complex wall.

"_No, you listen to me!_" he roared. His hands had her wrists pinned to the cool cement block behind her, almost bruising in their force. Due to his proximity, Amanda was suddenly made _very_ aware of the fact that he was shirtless and that she was not wearing a bra under her t-shirt.

"_I've had it up to __**here**__ with your bullshit, Amanda!_" He tightened his grip for emphasis. "_Stop running me around in circles like I'm your goddamn show horse!_"

Amanda stared at him coldly, refusing to be intimidated any longer.

"Are you done, yet?" she asked icily. "'Cause I have things to say, and I don't want to repeat myself."

John swore foully.

In reply, Amanda lashed out with her right leg, thrusting it between his shins, and then she swept his feet out from under him with her left leg, tugging with her hands so that he turned around. John went down like a sack of potatoes, landing hard on his belly. Amanda was quick to capitalize, wrenching his arms around behind his back and putting him in a hold that he wouldn't be able to escape from without causing himself injury. Leaning the majority of her weight upon his restrained arms, Amanda bent down to speak into his ear.

"Are you ready to listen, newbie?" she questioned, voice strangely calm. John grunted, squirming around and trying to throw her off, but Amanda put more pressure on his already strained arms, and he fell still with a gasp of pain. She watched him cough from the dust of the ground, and tried to ignore the feelings that he was producing in her. After all, it wasn't every day that she had a good-looking man without a shirt on between her thighs, even if it _was_ because she had him restrained.

"Good," she said softly. "Now, I'm going to say this once, so don't ask me to repeat myself." She took a deep breath. "It's very difficult for me to maintain a professional demeanor around someone like yourself. This is due to the fact that, yes, I _do_ want to be your friend, and yes, I _do_ find you to be very physically attractive. It's bad enough that I sometimes can't even think around you, and when I can't think, I get irritable."

She felt him still, and slowly eased up on the pressure that she had put on his arms. When he didn't move, she continued speaking.

"When I get irritable, I turn into a royal bitch," she continued. "I freely admit it, and hindsight is always twenty-twenty, so I usually only realize it after the fact. I apologize if you've felt at all slighted by me and my actions. I didn't mean to hurt you or make you angry with me."

She paused, observing his reaction. He had his eyes closed, and his breathing was heavy, but other than that, he seemed to be listening to every word. But still, he could just be ignoring her...

"John, are you listening?"

"Yes," he croaked. "I've got dust in my eyes and mouth, but yeah."

Amanda sighed. "Sorry about that."

"Just keep talking if you're going to."

Amanda bit back a smile. "Fine."

She took another deep breath. The next admission was going to be a difficult one.

"I'm a very... _prideful_ person," she said after a moment's hesitation. There, admission out of the way. "And I get defensive a lot of times if I see that pride as being threatened. Sometimes I see that you're trying to help me, and it makes me feel like I can't take care of myself, or it makes me feel as though you're trying to coddle me because I'm a girl. It gets my hackles up and I lose my temper and I say things I don't mean."

There was a long silence.

"I _do_ care about you, John," she admitted in a whisper.

_Watch your words, Amanda. Don't wanna move too fast._

"I really do. You're the closest thing I have to a real friend, right now, and I know I don't show it often. At least, not in the way that I should."

She swallowed back the nervousness that that confession had produced.

"I worry about you, so I lecture," she continued. "You're younger and less experienced than I am, so I give you orders that I _hope_ will keep you from getting killed or hurt. From a professional standpoint, as the team's expert in field medicine, I want to help train you in such a way that you'll be strong enough to take on anything, without causing you physical pain in the process." She paused. "It's... really, _really_ difficult to balance all these things out with the notion that you're _not_ helpless, that you _do_ know your limits... _most_ of the time... and that you're a fully-grown adult with your own life, your own mind, and your own reserve of common sense."

Amanda released a long sigh as she finally got it off her chest.

"So, yeah, I'm sorry, John," she finished. "I'll try to make a conscious effort to not be such a bitch and worrywart in the future, and I'll definitely try to lay off the lecturing."

They were quiet for a long, long moment.

"Apology accepted."

The phrase was quiet, enough so that Amanda almost didn't catch it, and she blinked when what he'd said finally registered in her mind. Then she smiled softly, and let go of his arms. He immediately pushed himself up slightly, and Amanda scrambled to get off of his back, realizing the awkward position that they had been in. John turned himself over so that he was sitting on the dusty ground, coughing the dirt out of his throat and lungs.

Amanda sat next to him, eying the way the dust clung to him like a second skin.

"Anything else you have questions about?" she queried after he had stopped coughing. John looked over at her as he wiped the dust off of his face with one hand.

"Yeah," he admitted, and his gaze was curious as he met hers. "What's this make us, now?"

Amanda smiled thoughtfully.

"Friends with potential, I guess," she said. Then she paused again, and grinned, holding out her right hand toward him. "I think we got started on the wrong foot. I'm Lance Corporal Amanda Halley, the same girl you met at Pendleton ten years ago. Wanna be friends?"

John stared at her for a long moment before he coughed out a chuckle and shook her hand.

"Lance Corporal John Grimm," he replied. "And yes, I would like very much to be your friend."

Amanda smirked. "You sure? I'm pretty certain I can be a royal bitch at times."

John couldn't help the laugh that tore out of his throat. "I'm pretty sure."

Amanda giggled, and John's laughter grew louder. Soon they were in stitches. Their relationship had gotten off to a rocky start, but maybe now things would get better.

That was, if Sarge didn't kill them in training, first.

* * *

_**Disclaimer: Don't own it.**_

_Okay, not much to say here. The next chapter is the big shootout, I swear. I just wanted to clear the air between Amanda and John, first. I have had it brought to my attention that I was very, very vague on the events between the time that John joined until the present day, as well as how their relationship went from "I'm tentative friends with you" to "I think I love you". So, just to let you know, some of the next updates are going to be double-updates (or single, depending on how sadistic I'm feeling, ^.~) and will gradually bring to light some of the events between the time that John joined and the present day._

_So yeah, I hope that this clears some of the air in here._

_John seems to be a man of many facets, and I'm going to try my best to portray that in this story, whether it be through flashbacks or through the "current events" diatribe that I usually write in. If you haven't figured it out by now, the flashbacks are written in italics (as are dreams and thoughts), wheras "normal" things are written in regular text. Flashbacks in this story usually coincide with dreams, though dreams are sometimes just dreams._

_By the same token, however, Amanda is a woman of many sides, as well. She is both prideful and humble, caring and aloof, sincere and smart-ass. She is very much a girl trying to figure out how to grow up into a woman in a very fast, bloody manner, and she's also trying to develop relationships at the same time. So, some of the things she does will seem to contradict themselves, and not everything will make sense at first. Hence the flashbacks, most of which will be humorous in nature._

_And just FYI, I got the "Jackrabbit of thought" quote from two of my friends: Amanda and Chelsea. You two rock!_

_Okay, enough of my ranting. On with the next chapter!_

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	12. 2041 AD RRTS Barracks 0600 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum**_

_**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_In modern war... you will die like a dog for no good reason.__"  
-__Ernest Hemingway_

_**Chapter 11.**_

_**-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**_

_**2041 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 0600 hours**_

Amanda was fairly bursting with excitement. It was July first, the day that their leave started. She had risen and eaten that morning at 0530 hours along with the rest of the men, and then had immediately begun tossing some of her things into her duffel bag. Her guns would be staying at the barracks in her locker, but her knives and her blanket were coming with her back to Missouri.

Amanda practically squirmed. She just couldn't _wait_ to see her family again!

Now, at 0600 hours, she hurriedly went through her locker, grabbing her civvies and anything else she thought might be useful for her stay at home. She had just finished tossing in a recently-acquired tennis ball when Sarge came down the stairs, his expression grim.

Amanda saw him, and sighed, shoulders drooping. "There goes leave," she muttered.

"Men," Sarge called. Everyone in the room immediately stopped what they were doing and gave Sarge their full attention.

"Leave is postponed," he announced. "We've got a game."

Groans and sighs erupted around the room. Amanda grabbed her jumpsuit and knives, and headed for the locker room. She was shortly followed by the rest of the team.

Once there, Amanda stripped down to her skin-tight dance shorts and tank that she always wore beneath her jumpsuit. Then she crossed over to the far side of the locker room, where there stood a scale and several other things. Being the medic for the Rapid Response Tactical Squad, she also doubled as the official doctor. She was responsible for giving the team their routine check-ups, their pre-mission physicals, and treating them if they were wounded in battle.

She had been the one to pull the bullet out of Goat's leg after the Christmas Day Massacre, despite the agony of her own broken ribs. _Not_ fun.

Amanda flipped on the computer next to the scale, got out her stethoscope, and set to work as the first of the team stepped up to the plate.

It was Portman.

He leered at her suggestively as Amanda had him sit down, shirt off, and began to listen to his breathing.

"Deep breath in," she commanded after he breathed out. He obeyed, purposefully squirming so that Amanda had to clamp her hand down on his shoulder to make him stay still.

"So what's it gonna be?" he asked her. "You wanna be on top, or on the bottom?"

Amanda ignored him. "Breathe out, slowly. Count to ten, then breathe in again."

"Bet you couldn't wait to get your hands on me," he said, and then yelped when she dug her thumb into one of his pressure points.

"Hey, Sarge," Amanda called, glaring at Portman. "I don't think this one's fit to suit up. He seems to be a little _mentally unstable._"

"Mentally unstable, my ass!" Portman protested. Amanda swatted him, hearing Indian, Hellraiser, and Hound sniggering.

"Shut up, Portman, and get on the scale," she ordered, keeping a calm expression during the whole procedure. Portman grumbled, but did as he was told. As Amanda entered in his height, Portman called his weight to her.

"Thankee kindly," she mumbled, and entered the information. "Destroyer, you're next."

And so it went. Destroyer checked out alright, as did Indian, Pug, Hellraiser, Hound, Sarge, and Goat. Amanda had a bit of trouble with John, however.

"Would you _hold still_, already?!" she exclaimed. John shot her a glare. Amanda just tried to ignore how smooth his skin was.

"It's not my fault that thing's so fucking cold!" he retorted. Amanda straightened, balling up her fist threateningly even as she closed her other hand over the horn of the stethoscope, warming it with her body heat.

"You want this thing shoved up your fucking _ass_, you dickhead?!" she demanded. "For fuck's _sake_, you _squirm_ worse than a _puppy!_"

"Enough!" barked Sarge. "Just take his stats and get on with it, Tank!"

"Yes, sir," Amanda grumbled, and gave John a warning glower before pressing the stethoscope to his back again. She ignored the snickers of her other squadmates.

"Deep breath in," she said after John had gotten his initial flinch out of his system. He reluctantly obeyed. "Breathe out, slowly. Count to ten, then breathe in again."

John did as he was told. Amanda had him stand up, took some measurements, and then recorded his stats whilst he stepped onto the scale.

"One-ninety-three," John told her. Amanda entered his weight into the computer after glancing at him.

"'Kay," Amanda said. Then she took off the stethoscope and extended it towards John. He looked at it, and then at her.

"What?" he inquired. Amanda rolled her eyes.

"I need someone to take my stats, and you're the last in line," she stated. When John looked at her incredulously, she shoved the scope at him before hopping up onto the examination table. She heard Portman and Hellraiser give a couple wolf-whistles.

"I call last place next mission!" Indian joked. Amanda gave him the one-fingered salute in reply, and then she turned to John.

"Just get it over with," Amanda ordered. John resignedly took the stethoscope and put the pieces in his ears before moving around to Amanda's right side. Amanda held back a flinch as the cold surface of the horn was slipped up underneath the back of her tank top and pressed into the skin between her shoulder blades.

"Deep breath in," John ordered tersely. Amanda did as commanded, breathing steadily in, and then out again when he told her to.

"Breathing's clear," he announced. Amanda slipped off the table and allowed him to measure her height using the ruler against the wall. Then she hopped on the scale and measured her weight.

"One-forty-five," she announced. The tapping of fingers on keys answered her, and Amanda stepped off the scale.

"Jesus, Tank, you're the same weight as you were when you joined?" Hellraiser asked, voice incredulous. Amanda cast him a glance.

"And you're surprised _why?_" she inquired. Nobody answered her.

"We all good?" asked Sarge. Amanda turned to him and nodded.

"I'm giving everybody a clean bill of health," she announced. "Even Portman."

"Then suit up, men!" Sarge ordered. The men hurried to do so, and Amanda followed suit after finalizing things on the computer and shutting it off. Then she made her way over to her station, where, to her dismay, she found that John had set himself up as her neighbor.

"You'd better not peek," she growled to him teasingly as she sidled up next to him and opened her locker. He glanced over at her. Amanda rolled her eyes to hide how self-conscious she felt standing there next to him in a tank, sports bra, and form-hugging dance shorts.

"You told me to stick to you like a tumor," he said. Amanda was surprised to hear a hint of teasing humor in his voice. "I figured I might as well get started now."

Amanda smiled at him as she slipped into her jumpsuit and zipped it up. "You dickhead," she muttered affectionately. "I'm performing self-surgery as soon as we get to the LZ."

"Fuck you, too," he returned amiably. "But you aren't getting rid of me that easily."

"Yo, Tank!" It was Portman. Amanda coolly turned to face him, her expression bland. She just _knew_ that something perverted was going to come out of his mouth. "You a virgin?"

Bingo.

"Of course," Amanda replied levelly. "Unlike some people who feel the need to whore themselves out and fuck anything with two legs, I actually have some self-respect."

"You fucking bitch!" snarled Portman, but Destroyer's hand on his shoulder kept him from doing anything rash.

"You seriously still a virgin?" asked Pug, wide-eyed. His accent had definitely gotten better since she had met him. Amanda looked over at him with a patient nod.

"Is it really so hard to believe?" she asked, slipping on her knee pads. "I, personally, have neither the time nor the desire to contract an STD or to get pregnant. I value my job."

She shrugged into her gloves and her elbow guards, too. "And I've never been mainstream enough to desire to lose my virginity in order to fit in."

Amanda paused to clip on her utility belt and begin filling it with the things she would need. "Nah, I'm saving it for someone really, _really_ special."

She glanced up at the team around her, unperturbed by the topic of conversation. "What about you boys? When'd you lose it?"

"Eighteen," Pug said. "She was very, _very_ pretty."

"Five," stated Portman. When the whole team, including Sarge, turned to stare at him incredulously, he glared. "My motherfuckin' father was a fuckin' pedophile, a'ight?"

Amanda felt her eyebrows shoot up towards her hairline. "That... That actually explains a whole fucking _lot._"

"No shit, Sherlock," muttered John. Silence reigned for a moment after this, only the sounds of the squad suiting up to break the stagnation

"I lost it when I was sixteen," said Hound.

"Me, too," confessed Hellraiser. "Most beautiful damn girl I ever did meet."

"What happened?" asked Amanda, curious.

"She found another bastard to screw," was all he would say.

"I lost it when I was fifteen," offered Indian. There was a pause after this, and Amanda looked up from her grenades to blink at Goat.

"Goat? What about you?"

He cast her a sidelong glance before raising an eyebrow. "I was twenty-one," he said.

Amanda smirked. "Oh, who's the lucky girl?"

"Tex."

Amanda choked on air and started coughing real hard at this statement. John slapped her on the back, which made her cough harder. She backhanded him in the gut, getting a grunt in return.

"_T-T-Tex?!_" Amanda practically shrieked once she could speak again. "The _Ice Queen_ of _Pendleton?!_ How the fucking hell did you get _her_ red-headed ass into _your_ bed?!"

"Lots of whiskey, a bottle of tequila, and a lot of built-up sexual tension," Goat replied calmly. Even Sarge was openly staring at him by this time.

"Who?" asked John. Amanda squeaked and turned to him, her eyes wide as saucers.

"You don't know who _Tex_ is?!" she demanded, wringing her hands.

John blinked at her, recoiling in slight discomfort. "I wasn't at Pendleton," he stated.

Amanda sighed heavily, deflating. "Boy, you have fucking _got_ to get out more often."

"Destroyer?" asked Hound, changing the subject. "What about you?"

"I was twenty," the big man said. "We're goin' on a full year, now."

"Married?" asked Amanda.

"Naw, just datin'."

"Sarge?" asked Amanda.

"Ask Tex."

"_Again?!_" Amanda ground out. "Jeez, how many people has she _slept_ with, anyway?"

"Don't ask," replied Sarge, pulling on his flak vest. Amanda sighed, and reached in for the last part of her ensemble, a pair of infrared goggles that she had acquired about two months after she had joined up. John saw these, and his eyebrows shot up.

"Where the fuck did you get those?" he asked her quietly. Amanda shushed him as she slipped the goggles around her neck.

"Black market," she muttered to him. He shot her a disapproving glare, but didn't say anything.

"And what about you, rookie?" asked Portman. John stiffened faintly. "You still a virgin?"

The room fell silent, waiting to see what John would say.

"I'm waiting for somebody," he finally answered.

Pug bounced up to him, fully equipped and raring to go. "Who? Who?" the excitable German man asked, eager to know.

John leaned back a little in an attempt to put some space between himself and Pug's wild blond hair.

"Ah, so the pussy's still a virgin!" drawled Portman.

"Fuck off, Portman," Amanda and John said at the same time. Then they blinked and looked at each other. Amanda was the first one to look away, awkwardly slamming her locker closed.

Then she headed out of the room to retrieve her rifle and submachine gun.

"I think you pissed her off, Portman," Amanda heard Hound observe as she crossed back out into the living quarters. She ignored them.

Her gun case was right where she had left it. Amanda quickly strapped her submachine gun to the outside of her right thigh and clipped the top of the strap to her belt. This would keep the gun from rattling if she had to sneak around someplace.

Then she grabbed her medical pouch and slung its strap over her shoulder before also attaching the pouch to her belt. Finally, she arrayed her knives on her person and donned her boots, sticking her Fairbairn-Stykes in her right boot and fastening her KA-BAR to her belt just behind her grenade pouch.

Her bayonet, she slipped into a sheath on the outside of her left thigh.

Finally, she pocketed a number of the special grenades made for her submachine gun's over-slung grenade launcher. Then she was ready.

Amanda quickly put away her gun case. She shouldered her rifle, and dashed up the stairs to join the rest of the squad at the chopper landing pad.

It had only been fifteen minutes since they'd gotten the mission.

They all clambered into the chopper and grabbed their assault rifles from the walls. Amanda grabbed hers and pressed her thumb to a small green pad on the stock.

"Handle ID: Tank," said the feminine voice of a computer. Around her, she heard the rest of the team doing the same. John's assault rifle was the only one that didn't give him a codename.

"Handle ID: Grimm." John looked at Amanda as he sat down next to her.

"When do I get a nickname?" he asked. Amanda looked at him as she pulled her PDA out of her pocket. It served as a personal computer, cell phone, music player, and database, and it fit in the palm of her hand.

"When someone thinks of one for you," she said simply. She paused when she saw his expression. "If it's any consolation, I didn't get mine until the day _you_ joined the squad."

"Huh," he muttered blandly. Amanda just smiled and put one of her earphones in. Its cord had a small microphone attached to it.

"Alright, men, here's the sit rep," Sarge announced, getting up from his seat and crossing to the console in the center of the chopper. Amanda felt a small jerk around her navel as the aircraft lifted off, and leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees, giving Sarge her full attention.

"We're headed up to D.C.," he said. Amanda blinked.

"D.C.?" she echoed. Then she groaned, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling as Sarge turned incredulously to her.

"Something to say, _Tank?_" he bit out. Amanda looked back down at him.

"The president's been kidnapped, hasn't he?" she guessed.

"No," Sarge deadpanned, "but close. Now shut the fuck up and listen."

"Yessir," Amanda mumbled.

Sarge continued on to detail the mission, what their goals were, what the threats were, the time constraints, liabilities, and other essential information. By the time they were done, an hour had passed and the chopper had had to stop to refuel. Sarge gave them leave to stretch their legs while the refueling process commenced, and Amanda hopped out of the chopper with a grateful sigh.

John cast her a look beneath his raised eyebrow as he grounded himself next to her. Amanda gave a brief, faint smile before she dialed the number for her parents' home in Missouri on her PDA.

Her father was the one to pick up.

"Hello?" Amanda's eyes stung briefly at the sound of his voice, knowing that this may well be the last time she ever spoke to him.

"Dad?"

"Hey, sweets!" Keith exclaimed, happy to hear his daughter's voice. "What's up? You and the boys on the plane, yet?"

Amanda swallowed. "No, dad, we're not."

A silence spread on the other end of the line. Amanda could almost hear her dad sobering, and she took a deep breath, steeling herself. A hard look of determination took over her expression as she put herself into her 'zone'.

"What's the matter?" her dad asked.

"Who all is there right now?" Amanda countered.

"Practically everybody," Keith answered. "We were going to have a little get-together to welcome you home and to greet your squad."

"Get them together, dad," Amanda ordered grimly. "Put them on the speaker phone."

There was a second of silence, and then Amanda heard her dad shouting for people to 'get in here' and she heard him ordering quiet. Then there was a faint beeping noise, and Amanda heard the faint echo of her breathing become louder in her earpiece.

"You're on, babe," Amanda heard her mom say.

"Hey, everybody," Amanda said. Various greetings were sent her way, but she cut them off. "I'm not coming home today."

Another silence met her.

"Why?" Keith's voice was cautious, wary, and Amanda had to pull the mike away from her mouth so she could take a deep breath. She heard the static noise of her fingers scraping against the mike, and after she had taken her breath she hurriedly let it go.

"We've got a mission," she stated, voice serious and grim. Amanda swallowed, hearing her own throat in motion over her earpiece. "Leave has been postponed. Level three quarantine will go into effect as soon as we arrive." She paused, and then muttered, "I expect it'll be all over the news."

"What'll be all over the news?" It was Tori, Amanda's cousin and one of her best friends. The woman's voice was full of concern for her 'baby cousin'. "What're you talking about?"

Amanda took a deep breath. "I just wanted you all to know," she started, "that I love you all very much. Just in case..."

Amanda gasped when a sudden, viselike grip took a hold of her arm, and she whirled around to stare into John's serious hazel eyes.

"You'd better not even say it, Tank," he growled. Amanda heard his voice echo quietly in her earpiece. "We're _all_ going to come out of this alive, and we're all going to go to Missouri to celebrate the Fourth. Don't even fucking _think_ anything else."

Amanda growled, and ripped her arm out of his hand. "I'm being realistic, John Grimm!" she exclaimed, and tried to keep the anxiety out of her voice, knowing that her family and friends were hearing every last word. "We're RRTS! Every mission we go on could be our last!"

Amanda took a shaking breath, briefly glaring at him, and then turned away.

"Fall in!" she heard Sarge shout behind her. Amanda took a deep breath, and spoke quickly into her phone's mike, hearing the chopper revving up behind her.

"I love you all, and if I don't make it back, then _please_ remember that," she pleaded quietly. "Love you. Bye."

In the split second before Amanda hung up her phone, she heard several anguished exclamations. Then the line went dead and she yanked the headphone out of her ear, all but dashing back into the chopper.

Her shoulders were trembling faintly when she sat down on the bench. John sat down next to her and peered into her face for a second. Amanda noticed his stare, and gave him a shaky smile.

"I'm okay," she said, taking another deep breath. Then she paused, and reached into one of her vest pockets. Amanda rifled through it for a second, and then she pulled out a half-depleted pack of Wrigley's Doublemint chewing gum.

"I got gum," she announced as the chopper took off again. "Anybody want some?"

Sarge, from where he was sitting across from her, gave her a knowing look and a smile. Then he reached out and took the stick of gum she offered. John was the next to accept, and then Pug, Hellraiser, Hound, and Indian. Destroyer nodded to her, but he already had a stick of gum in his mouth from his own stash, and Portman didn't like gum, so he just shook his head.

Amanda unwrapped her own stick, the last one in her pack, with shaking hands. It was after she almost dropped it that a large, strong hand covered both of her own. She jerked faintly and looked over to see John staring at her. After a second, he raised one eyebrow slightly, questioning.

Amanda couldn't help it; she relaxed slightly, enough that her shaking stopped.

"I'm fine," she whispered. This time, she meant it.

She even managed a faint smile as she finally managed to finish unwrapping her gum, and stuck it in her mouth, chewing with relish. After that, she leaned her head back against the side of the transport, put her headphones in, pressed 'play' on her play list, and closed her eyes, just trying to prepare her mind for what she would doubtlessly experience on this, her second mission with the Rapid Response Tactical Squad.

The rest of the flight to Washington, DC was spent in alternating periods of silence and banter, speculation and wistful reflection.

Then they got the ETA of one minute and thirty seconds at 0900 hours, and Amanda's life seemed to slow down.

She took a breath, leaned her head forward. Then she looked up at everyone.

"Hey, guys," she called. Seven pairs of eyes immediately turned to her. "At the risk of sounding pessimistic, it's been great to be on this squad with you." She saw Portman raise an eyebrow. "_Yes_, all of you. And don't try to turn it into something it's not, Portman. It'll just backfire on you."

"I want all of you to come out of this mission alive," Sarge said. A chorus of 'Yes, Sarge' met him. It was then that one of Amanda's favorite songs came on. She closed her eyes, listened to it passively for a few seconds, and then the chorus came on, and she chuckled.

"Don't fear the Reaper," she mumbled. The team's gazes all locked on her.

"Don't fear the Reaper?" Pug echoed questioningly.

Amanda paused thoughtfully, and then opened her eyes, fixing her gaze on John. "You're the Reaper," she told him. "Don't fear the Reaper, Reaper."

John seemed startled, as did the rest of the squad, and Sarge stared at her as though she had just sprouted a third head. "What the fuck are you listening to, Tank?"

Amanda blinked, and then, slowly, she took the headphone jack out of her PDA and turned up the volume, restarting the song at the same time.

Blue Oyster Cult's _Don't Fear the Reaper_ blared out over her PDA's meager speakers.

"Seasons don't fear the Reaper," she muttered to herself. "Nor do the wind or the sun or the rain..."

"How _old_ is that song?" asked Hound incredulously. Amanda closed her eyes and hung her head for a moment.

"1976," she finally replied, and when she looked up again, Tank stared out at them all.

It was almost a shocking transition. Her eyes, which had been so melancholy only moments before, were now as cold and hard as steel. Her features were locked in an impressively fierce expression, though no less controlled than her hands on her gun, which were almost perfectly still.

"Let's do this," she whispered as she felt the chopper set down. Tank's flinty gaze met that of Sarge. "Tank is ready for action, sir."

She turned off her music, tucked the PDA away into a pocket on the interior of her vest, and stood. When she grasped her assault rifle again, her emotions were locked behind a brick wall made of determination and nerves of steel.

When John picked up his assault rifle again, the female voice of the computer belted out, "Handle ID: Reaper."

Tank turned to her partner, and nodded. "Sarge, I've got Reaper for this one," she said.

"I call Hellraiser!" cried Pug.

"I've got Goat," proclaimed Portman.

"I'd rather have Indian watchin' my back, any day," Hound said.

"Destroyer, you're with me," Sarge declared. Then he opened the door of the chopper, the landing ramp extended, and the squad deployed, guns out and armed. They made a fast sweep of the perimeter, and then proclaimed it clear. Tank then took that time to glance at her surroundings, not letting her gun down from her shoulder. She could see the newly-Christened Reaper doing the same out of the corner of her eye.

They were in the Capitol Complex, a few hundred meters west of Capitol Hill. Tank heard the chopper powering down behind them, and over that noise, she could hear the sounds of news crews crowding around behind the yellow tape, heard the sound of news helicopters circling, could see flashes from cameras going off.

Tank even swore she heard the someone ask who had called in the _Doom_ cosplayers.

Tank ignored all of this, though, and fell in behind Sarge as he motioned them forward. Tank started off at a jog behind him, her assault rifle held at the ready. Her alert gaze scanned all of the rooftops and any and all windows of their destination. She knew where a sniper would hide.

"Comm units in!" she heard Sarge order, and Tank stuck her earpiece in on the run, switching on her comm from its spot on her vest.

"We hear you loud and clear, Sarge. Over," she said quietly into it.

"Good." Sarge motioned for them to split up like they'd planned. Tank and Reaper turned left, circling around the perimeter.

"Keep your eyes peeled, there might be snipers _anywhere,_" Tank whispered into her comm, knowing that they would all hear.

"_Roger that,_" came Sarge's voice. Tank and Reaper slowly made their way to the walls of the Capitol building, and then edged their way around to the side windows. They made sure to keep low to the ground to avoid being seen, even going as far as to belly-crawl their way underneath some of the windows.

Within ten minutes, Tank and Reaper had made it to their destination at the north face of the building, and now Tank watched as Reaper cautiously peered around the windowsill into the darkened interior of the room inside.

"Echo team are in position. Over," he whispered into his comm. Several seconds of radio silence passed, and then Sarge spoke up.

"_Alpha team in position. Over,_" he said.

"_Foxtrot is in position. Over,_" said Portman.

"_India is in position. Over,_" said Indian.

"_Zulu team is in position. Over,_" Tank heard Pug whisper.

"_Commence operation,_" Sarge commanded. Tank and Reaper burst into action.

Tank sidled up the wall, using one of her thinner knives to slide the window latch up so that it fell out of place. Then she and Reaper edged the windows open on silent hinges. Tank held up three fingers to Reaper, slowly lowering them one by one.

When the last finger fell, they leapt out of hiding and jumped into the room, rolling and coming up with their assault rifles at the ready as they scanned the room for hostiles.

"Clear," Tank declared after sweeping the room from one side to the other.

"Clear," Reaper concurred. "Sarge, we have entry, repeat, Echo team has breached the building."

"_Commence phase two,_" Tank heard Sarge say. She and Reaper hurriedly took to hugging the walls of the room, and within ten seconds had circled around to the door. Tank looked over to Reaper, a maniacal glint in her eye. On the other side of that wooden portal was the Senate chamber, where a group of thirty terrorists had made hostages out of the Senators and the Vice President during the Senatorial session that had started two hours before.

This was what she had joined the Marine Corps for, what she had joined RRTS for.

"Ave imperitor, morituri te salutant," she whispered, just barely loud enough for him to hear. Reaper nodded slightly.

"Semper fi," he breathed back. Then Tank pressed down on the door handle and threw it open. Reaper was the first one through, bringing his assault rifle to bear on an armed man standing just a few feet away. Two shots rang out through the air, which was tense with panic and thick with fear.

The rifle-toting man dropped dead, shot through the heart and the head, respectively.

Tank immediately burst out after Reaper. Her finger squeezed the trigger once, and a shot hit another terrorist in the chest. Tank immediately used the recoil to align her next shot with the man's head. He dropped like a sack of potatoes and didn't get back up.

The whole exchange had taken less than ten seconds.

But by this time, the terrorists had reacted to the two Marines' presence, and the pair were forced to take cover back in the room they'd come out of.

"Contact!" Tank screamed into her comm over the sound of the bullets hitting the walls. "Contact, hostiles in the Senate chamber! Sarge, we're pinned down at our entry point!"

"_Roger that,_" Sarge replied. "_Commencing phase three._"

Right after he said this, Tank and Reaper heard more gunfire. Tank peered out around the edge of the door frame as much as she could without exposing herself too much.

"Reaper," she called. He lifted his chin in acknowledgment, and they dashed out from behind their cover into the viewing gallery, sighting up targets in their scopes and opening fire. Two more dropped, but not before Tank glimpsed one holding a deadman's stick.

"Sarge!" she yelled into her comm. "They have a bomb! Repeat, they have a bomb!" Even as she said it, Tank was rushing toward the falling man. She made it just in time to grasp his hand around the trigger and keep it from going off.

"_Can you tell where?_" Tank glimpsed Sarge on the opposite end of the gallery, and was barely able to hear his voice over the sound of the firefight and the terrified screams and frightened yells of the Senators and Vice President.

"Negative," Tank replied, her sharp brown gaze scanning the room. "One of the targets I just shot is holding a deadman's stick! Bomb is armed and dangerous! Repeat, bomb is armed and dangerous!"

"_Roger,_" she heard Sarge say.

Keeping her hand over the dead man's deadman's stick, Tank leveled her assault rifle with her right arm and fired at a terrorist who was sighting up Reaper.

"Reaper, watch your six!" she snapped into her comm, and then brought her gun to bear on a terrorist at three o'clock. "You know what? Fuck your six! Come cover mine!"

"_Be right there, Tank, I'm a bit busy!_" he replied waspishly as he rolled out of the way of a shot that narrowly missed him. Tank swore, and ducked underneath a round that flew wide and shattered some of the plaster of the wall at nine o'clock.

"_Shit!_" Hound yelled over the comm. His Mexican accent came through as he continued, "_Sarge, we found that bomb!_"

"_Where is it?_" Tank heard Sarge ask as she threw herself prone to avoid getting sniped. A few rounds sped over her head.

"_Down in the Senate chamber's lower level!_" reported Indian. "_It's under the podium! Looks pretty high-powered, too!_"

"Can you disarm it?" Tank asked, frantically shooting into the terrorists, who had unwisely grouped together.

"_Si,_" replied Hound in Spanish.

"_Get the fuck on it!_" ordered Sarge. Tank swore, trying to roll to the side to avoid potshots that the remaining twelve or so terrorists were taking at her and Reaper.

"Is anybody relatively free?" Tank called into her comm. "'Cause if I get shot and drop this thing, we're all dead!" A second later, friendly fire whizzed over her head and took out a man who was trying to line Tank's moving form up in his sights.

"Thanks!" she called.

"No problem," came Reaper's deep voice as he finally made it over to her. Tank nodded up at him and worked on getting the deadman's stick out of the dead terrorist's cold grip without triggering the bomb. It didn't take long, but it took some maneuvering, and Tank was breathless by the time she finally got it away from the cooling fingers.

"We have to get down there," she told Reaper, "or at least find something to keep this thing from going off with."

"No shit, Sherlock," he muttered to her. Tank just frowned up at him before she got to her feet, firing her rifle into another gaggle of terrorists that had stupidly gathered around one spot.

Tank and Reaper were quick to make their way around to the stairwell on one side of the room, shooting as they went. When she saw that the staircase was the spiraling kind, Tank groaned.

Reaper looked at her questioningly.

"Stairs," Tank all but moaned. "Tactical _nightmare_." She nodded to him, keeping her left hand clenched around the deadman's stick. Grimacing, Tank slung her assault rifle over her shoulder and hurriedly grabbed her submachine gun. Then she led the way down the stairs, alternating her running with Reaper's until they reached the bottom.

Then they headed out into the Senate chamber, where the hostage Senators and the Vice President were gathered. Tank and Reaper ran over to the politicians, Tank taking out the startled terrorists standing over them as she went.

"Senators," she heard Reaper calmly say as they neared them. "If you will please come with us, we need to get you all out of this building."

"Sarge, Echo team is commencing phase four," Tank said into her comm.

"_Roger that,_" Sarge replied. "_Wait for Foxtrot, they're coming up on your position._"

"Roger. Over," Tank said. A few seconds later, Portman and Goat entered the floor of the chamber from the same stairwell that Tank and Reaper had, their rifles up and their eyes darting every which way. Tank nodded to them, and then left the pair to cover her and Reaper as they got the Senators up and moving.

Tank made her way over to a woman curled on the floor with her hands over the back of her neck. She looked like she was expecting an earthquake. Tank laid her hand on the woman's shoulder.

"Ma'am," Tank said. The woman looked up at her with defiant eyes, and Tank was struck with a pang of familiarity that was quickly pushed away. "Senator, we're with RRTS squad Six. We're getting you out of here."

The blond woman nodded and got to her feet. She was wearing flat shoes, thankfully. Tank saw that her hair was drawn back in a stylishly loose braid.

"Ma'am," Tank said to her. The woman's blue eyes locked onto Tank. "I need your hair-tie."

The woman blinked, and then drew her braid over her shoulder. "My hair-tie?"

"Yes," Tank said. The woman blinked and shrugged, before she took the black ponytail holder out of her hair and handed it to Tank, who hurriedly wrapped it several times around the trigger of the deadman's stick. It held when she released it.

"Deadman's stick is secure, Sarge," Tank said into her comm, pocketing the detonator.

"_Roger that,_" Sarge replied. "_We're finishing up. Get all the Senators out._"

"Sir," Tank acknowledged, and then raised her voice. "Senators, if you will please follow me and Lance Corporal Grimm, we are going to evacuate you at this time. Do not ask questions, do not fall behind."

Then Tank turned and led the way out of the Senate Chamber, Reaper at her side. Goat and Portman brought up the rear until Tank, Reaper, and the Senators reached the door. Then Goat and Portman took point.

"Follow Lance Corporal Portman and Corporal Fantom," Tank told the Senators. Goat and Portman hurriedly rushed out to clear the hallway, and when they were sure it was safe, they motioned the Senators forward. Tank and Reaper ushered the frightened politicians through the door, and then they started to follow.

"_Shit!_" Tank heard Indian and Hound scream. Then there was a massive concussion, and she felt heat blast against her back. Her breath left her as the air was superheated. Then came the worst of it.

White, mind-numbing agony exploded from her left hip and thigh, and she was thrown forward along with what looked, to Tank's swimming gaze, like pieces of debris. Her ears rang, and she faintly heard Reaper scream something over the white noise that filled her head. Her temples throbbed; she coughed, tasted blood. Tank figured that she had bitten her tongue. She tried to move her left leg, but mind-blowing pain erupted from it, and she couldn't bite back the strangled yell that came from her throat.

Her last thought was that she was going to die.

A second later, everything went black.

* * *

_**2041 A.D. - Senate Chamber, Capitol Building, Washington, D.C. - 0945 hours**_

Reaper felt the explosion, was thrown back into the wall by it. He felt something in his chest give way, and his head cracked against the plaster. Then he faintly heard Tank scream over the ringing in his ears and managed to look up at her in time to see her eyes roll back into her head as she went limp where she lay on the floor. Reaper felt a cry rise up in his throat along with bile, but he held it all back, dragging his aching body up against the wall. He managed to stagger over to her before he collapsed to his knees again.

"Man down!" he screamed into his comm, his throat dry and his voice hoarse. "Man down!"

Swallowing, Reaper grabbed her shoulder with shaking hands, trying to turn her onto her side. The ringing in his ears was fading, and his chest was starting to ache and burn. He could hear gunshots, but they were dying down. Sarge was yelling for a report into his ear.

"Tank is down," Reaper managed to cough out. "Goat and Portman were outside the room. The Senators got out before the blast."

"_What about Hound and Indian?_" demanded Sarge. Reaper coughed again, tasting blood, and looked over to the smoldering ring where the podium had once stood. He could just make out two forms, with the remains of black jumpsuits and flak jackets on the shrapnel-ridden bodies.

"I think they're dead," Reaper gasped out. It was becoming harder and harder for him to talk, and it felt like his throat was closing up. He took a deep breath, but choked and dissolved into a coughing fit. Reaper's sides exploded in agony, and he doubled over, bracing one hand against the floor next to Tank and covering his mouth with his other. When he could finally breathe again, Reaper pulled his hand away from his lips.

His gloved palm was splotched with blood.

"_Reaper, report!_" Sarge ordered. Reaper's vision suddenly swam.

"Man... down," he wheezed. Then he dissolved into another coughing fit.

"_Fuck!_" Sarge swore in his ear. Reaper heard another pair of gunshots ring out. He managed to get his breath long enough to press his fingers to Tank's jugular.

She was still alive.

"Tank's alive," Reaper rasped, and let his eyes scan her body. "She's got shrapnel stuck in her left hip and leg, and it looks like she took a nasty bump on the head. She was closer to the bomb when it went off than I was."

He coughed wetly again. "Sarge," he groaned, tongue feeling like lead. "Sarge, she needs medical attention."

"_Reaper, what's your status?_" Sarge prompted. Reaper thought he heard footsteps, but whether they were from his comm or from his surroundings, he couldn't be sure.

"Coughing blood," Reaper said. His voice gurgled when he talked, and he spat a thick stream of blood onto the floor. "Can't see straight."

"_Hang in there, Reaper, we're on our way,_" came Goat's voice.

"What about the Senators?" croaked Reaper. His vision was growing dim, and he choked again.

"_Safe,_" he heard Goat say over the sound of his blood splattering on the ground. "_Hold on, Reaper!_"

"Hurry," Reaper gasped. Then, with a gurgling groan, he felt his arms give out, and he collapsed, his head landing next to Tank's side. Reaper's last vision before the world went black was of Tank's agonized expression.

Everything faded to oblivion.

* * *

**_Disclaimer: Don't own it._**

_And that's a wrap. I couldn't get a detailed schematic of the Capitol building, so this is going off of what I could gather. A good 13 pages of it in OpenOffice, making it the longest chapter in this story to date._

_I hope you didn't mind all the drama beforehand; I was trying to display what suiting up and stuff might be like. The whole sex talk was really awkward to write. O.o Especially Portman's part, though Sarge and Goat's confessions were actually kind of fun. Tex will be reappearing, but not until later in the story, though she will be mentioned in passing._

**_A note: Sessions in the Senate are accessible by the public from a free-access viewing gallery, the notion of which made this whole scenario possible._**

**_Also: The term "PDA" stands for "Personal Data Apparatus". Basically, it's a pocket PC with a fancy name._**

_Next chapter will involve a flashback, and Tank discovers the final fate of Hound and Indian. (They were tough to kill off, seriously. I liked them.)_

_Hope you enjoyed it. Feedback is always greatly appreciated, as is any military know-how, seeing as I'm not in the military, myself, so it's difficult to write blind like that. A huge thank you to **askita**, who has been my main source of military knowledge since we began conversing. I also owe a big chunk of gratitude to **Hidden Relevance** for her thorough, well-rounded, and eye-opening critique from the last chapter. I will do my best to keep in mind and adjust some of my writing style to adapt to some of the highly valid notions that you brought to the fore. You were right about the relationship comment, especially, though it was only after I re-read the previous chapters that I realized how abrupt it was._

_Tank and Reaper's relationship throughout this story is very mercurial, at times, like most relationships are. I'm trying to write that in and keep it believable, and your feedback helps a lot with that, since I currently don't have a beta of my own. You can probably expect to see some chapters rewritten in the future, due to that circumstance._

_I promise to always try my best, however, and I am very open to any criticism or comments that you might make. After all, everything is a learning experience, and experience teaches. Teaching makes me smarter, so please be my teachers!_

_Thank you to everybody who reviewed chapters 9 and 10: **askita** and **Hidden Relevance**. You guys are awesome, and thank you **SO MUCH **for your support and for your extremely helpful comments_!

_Next chapter will be posted 9-14-09._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	13. 2041 AD Washington DC 1900 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum**_

_**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

_"Grand them eternal rest, Lord, and perpetual light."  
-Sarah Brightman, 'In Paradisum'_

_**Chapter 12.**_

**-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

_**2041 A.D. - ?????? - ???? hours**_

_Her breath came short, her heart was pounding, and her palms were sweating, but her hands were steady on the grip of her gun as she leaned against the concrete behind her back. To her right, she could barely make out Sarge camouflaged among the dry scrub and crumbling walls; to her immediate left, Hellraiser was leaning out around their cover, trying to spot any of their opponents. The oddly-shaped gun looked strange in his hands; too small, too cumbersome. However, as he lifted it to his shoulder to take a couple of quiet potshots, Amanda mused that he wielded it like a professional. She couldn't see Hound anywhere, but she knew that he was out there somewhere._

_Destroyer returned from his scouting and crouched against the wall between Amanda and Sarge._

_"Couldn't see anything," he whispered to them. "They're hidden too well."_

_Sarge nodded, and then looked at Amanda pointedly. She sighed in resignation, dreading what was doubtlessly coming, and got to her feet. She stood behind Hellraiser for a long second, steadying her nerves and waiting for the other three to get into position. Sarge got ready to fire, and Destroyer took Amanda's former spot underneath a small hole in the wall._

_Sarge gave the signal._

_Amanda threw herself out from behind her cover, tearing across the uneven ground as she barreled toward the next wall. Enemy fire hurtled toward her from behind a wall at ten o'clock; she took a few potshots in reply, and then she felt a sting on her right thigh before that area quickly went numb. She hissed and tossed herself prone as friendly fire whizzed over her head, heading for the enemy's position._

_There was one answering yelp of pain, and she spotted a dark-haired one as he hit the dirt, defeated._

_Amanda lined up a shot with her own gun. A couple of projectiles whooshed out of the muzzle, heading for one of her enemies who had exposed himself. The blond man went down, but not before sending a retaliating shot in Amanda's direction. The shot hit her helmet, knocking her back, dazing her, and taking her out of the game._

_The whistle blew a few moments later._

_Amanda groaned and sat up, rubbing her head and thigh. She set her gun down on the ground next to her and looked up as her squadmates all came out from behind their cover._

_She snickered when she saw John covered in hot pink paint._

_He rolled his eyes and came to sit next to her, putting down his own green-filled paintball gun and pulling off his mask. He had a streak of pink leaking down his cheek from where one shot had exploded in his hair and dripped down underneath his mask._

_"That's a good look for you, John," Amanda teased. He gave her a bland look._

_"Hardy-har-har," he retorted. "You don't look half bad in neon green, yourself, Hulk."_

_Amanda giggled, amused by their now-familiar banter, and then looked up at Pug as the German man came out of his observational post._

_"So, what's the verdict?" Sarge asked._

_"Small-unit cohesion needs some work," Pug reported, shouldering his own paintball gun. "Amanda needs to work on her evasion skills." Portman snickered at that- he had been the one to shoot her in the head. "And Portman needs to work on his aim."_

_Portman gave Pug a scathing glare for that remark._

_"And John needs to work on his use of cover," Pug concluded. Amanda eyed John. In the six weeks since he had joined the squad, he had come a long way, but he still had stuff he needed to work on. He was currently covered head-to-toe in hot pink paint, with barely a square inch of him not discolored. He would definitely be feeling it later tonight._

_John gave Pug a sheepish grin in reply._

_"Okay, then we're doing it all again," Sarge announced. "New team assignments are as follows: John, Amanda, Goat, Destroyer, and Indian on team pink. Pug, Hellraiser, Portman, and Hound on team green. I'm refereeing."_

_Amanda giggled. "Sarge doesn't want to get discolored."_

_Sarge shot her a glare. "Halley, turn on your mind-mouth filter and get your ass moving."_

_Amanda snapped him a mockingly-exaggerated salute. "Yessir!"_

_"Cut the crap, Amanda!"_

_She just smirked knowingly and got to her feet, the spot on her right thigh where she had been hit aching. She gathered John with a look after he exchanged guns with Hellraiser._

_The two of them dashed off into the surrounding cover after the starting whistle blew._

_Fifteen minutes later, they met up with the rest of the squad. Both Amanda and John were completely covered in neon green paint (which, added to John's hot pink, made for a headache-inducing combination), a result of the fact that the other team had pulled off a successful flanking maneuver on them. It had actually been rather amusing, in hindsight, the way they had both yelled in surprise and pain when they started getting pelted from behind by neon green paintballs._

_Now they just looked like they needed good, long showers and a couple of ice packs._

_Needless to say, after Sarge had laid into them about their failings, the whole squad had had a good laugh at their expense. In the end, John had offered Amanda a helping hand when she started limping. She had gotten hit on the inside of her left thigh, a very sensitive spot, and when it started throbbing, it was really hard for her to walk._

_She took his hand gratefully and allowed him to support her all the way back to the Humvee. It was a chore to ignore the feelings of affection that stirred in her heart. Who'd'a thunk it?_

_Chivalry wasn't dead, after all._

**-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

_**2041 A.D. - Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Washington, D.C. - 1900 hours**_

Her _head_ was fucking _foggy._

That was all Tank could think of for a few minutes as she assessed her condition, until she remembered what had happened.

Her brandy-brown eyes snapped open and she shot upward into a sitting position with a gasp. Then pain exploded from her left hip and thigh, and she fell back with a strangled moan of shock and agony.

"Don't move," came a voice from her left. Tank looked over to find a doctor leaning over her, a pair of specs perched on the woman's nose.

"Where-?" Tank coughed and tried again. "Where am I?"

"You're at the Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C.," the woman answered, putting her hand on Tank's forehead. "I am Doctor Amy McAllister."

"What happened?" Tank prompted. "Where's the rest of RRTS Six? Is everybody okay?"

"The rest of your squad is either out in the lobby, in the intensive care unit, or in the morgue," the doctor replied. Tank felt her blood run cold at these words, and she felt faint again.

"Who?" she asked quietly. "Who died?"

"A Manish Bandi and a Harry Alewar," Dr. McAllister replied, her voice professional and uninflected. Tank swallowed and relaxed back into her pillow, feeling like she had been punched in the gut.

"Indian and Hound?" she breathed. She paused for a second, and then turned an icy glare on the doctor. "Get my NCO in here."

The doctor frowned. "In your condition-!"

"I know what my fucking condition is!" Tank all but shouted. "I bit my cheek, I have a mild concussion, and it feels like my left leg got cut up. I'm the fucking med specialist for my squad! Now get my fucking commanding officer the fuck in here!"

The woman bristled, but she walked to the door in a huff nonetheless. Tank relaxed a little bit when she saw Dr. McAllister call Sarge. He, Pug, Destroyer, Hellraiser, Goat, and Portman entered the room a moment later.

"Tank! You're awake!" exclaimed Pug upon seeing Tank sitting there grouchily with her eyes open.

Tank nodded to him, and then directed her glare to Sarge. "What happened?" she demanded.

Sarge sighed heavily, and Tank heard the doctor leave the room as Sarge sat down in the chair that was next to the bed. She watched as he moved it closer to her.

"Hound and Indian are dead," Sarge told her. "Indian managed to survive long enough to tell us that the bomb had a timer on it that they didn't find until just before it blew. He died while we were trying to get him here. Hound was killed immediately."

"And the rest of you?" she asked, and then gasped, her eyes going wide. "Reaper. I heard him yell. Is he okay?"

"Reaper's in the ICU," said Destroyer, and Tank turned her horrified gaze onto him. "The rest of us are fine, 'cept for a few scratches and bruises."

"That's good to hear," Tank croaked. "What happened to Reaper after I passed out?"

"He got caught in the blast," Goat supplied, his voice a little quieter than usual. "Broke seven of his ribs and got a mild concussion from getting thrown against the wall. He was coughing blood by the time we got to him."

"But he'll be alright?" Tank prompted, trying to hide her anxiety.

"After a couple months, yeah," said Sarge. He paused, and then looked at her with one eyebrow raised. "Your folks are probably worried sick. The media cameras caught us when we took you, Reaper, and Hound and Indian's corpses out of the building."

Tank groaned. "Don't remind me," she croaked. "It's gonna be bad enough having them pissed at me for the scare I gave them when I called them earlier."

"Which is probably why you should just call them and get it over with," Hellraiser suggested, more serious than Tank had ever seen him. She nodded, but turned back to Sarge, her eyes weary with grief.

"What'll happen to Indian and Hound's bodies?" she asked quietly.

"They'll be buried," he answered simply, "like the heroes that they were."

Tank's vision blurred again, but she knew that it was not from her mild concussion. "Thanks."

She feebly glanced around, and spotted her gear and clothes on a table on the other side of the room.

"Could you get my PDA for me?" she asked Pug. "It's in the inner pocket of my vest."

Pug complied with a reassuring smile. When Tank accepted the PDA from him, she stared at it, lost in her thoughts.

"Thanks, Pug," she whispered.

"You're welcome," Pug said, allowing some of his accent to slip back into his voice. Tank smiled faintly.

She didn't even notice when Sarge ordered the men out of the room and left to give her some privacy. Sighing, Tank dialed the number for her home in Missouri. She figured it was about six or so there. It was only after the dial tone had begun that she realized that she was probably interrupting dinner.

"_Hello?_" The voice on the other line was anxious, filled with dread. Tank briefly mused that if she had thought that the half-hour of combat at the Capitol Building had been hell, then it must have been nothing compared to what her family had been going through.

"Mom?"

"_Amanda!_" Her mom gasped. "_Oh, thank God!_" Tank heard Marie take a deep breath. "_Are you okay? What happened? Oh, honey, how were you injured?_"

"Slow down, mom," Tank rasped. Really, would it not have killed someone to have gotten her a glass of water or something while they'd been in there?

"I'll be okay, with time," Tank replied slowly. "Were you watching the news?"

"_Yes, that's how we found out you were injured,_" Marie answered. The profound relief in her voice made Tank's lips twitch in a bitter mockery of a ghost of a smile. "_The Senators all got out alright._"

"Great," Tank scoffed to herself, frowning. "We'll just have to go in and save their stupid asses again next time somebody decides to pull a gun or something when they have a session. Damn free-access viewing gallery..."

Tank sighed, and addressed her mother again. "We had everything under control until the very end," she explained. "Found the deadman's stick to a bomb and secured it, but the damn thing had a timer that we didn't find out about until it was too late."

She paused again, her throat tight and her gaze bitter as she stared, unseeing, at the thin hospital blanket that covered her lower half. "We lost Indian and Hound."

Marie gasped. "_Oh, no,_" she moaned. "_Oh, no..._"

"Yes," Tank bit out, anger suddenly flaring. "Hound was lucky. He died instantly." She paused to take a calming breath, but it did little good. "Indian survived long enough to tell Sarge and the others what went wrong. He died on the way to the hospital."

"_Oh, baby..._"

"Reaper and I were farther away from the bomb, getting the Senators out," Tank continued as though her mother had not spoken. "I took shrapnel to my left hip and left thigh, and I bit my cheek when I fell. I've got a mild concussion. Reaper got thrown. Sarge told me he's in the ICU, still."

"_Is he going to be okay?_" asked Marie, trying to sound soothing. Tank, who had always been soothed by her mother's voice before, found that it only made her angrier.

"Not for a while."

"_Why not?_"

"Would you be okay if you got thrown into a fucking wall and ended up coughing up blood because you broke seven of your ribs?" Tank snapped irritably. Marie was silent. It was that silence that finally deflated Tank, and she sighed heavily, feeling guilt and sadness weighing on her heart.

"Sorry, mom," she mumbled. "I don't mean to snap."

Marie's voice was quiet when she replied. "_I know, baby._"

"I'm still planning on coming out for the fourth," Tank offered. "If Reaper's able to move by then, then he'll be coming with me, as will Goat."

"_Which ones are they, again?_" Marie inquired, grateful for the change in subject.

"Goat is Eric Fantom, the one who I used to rant about when I was little," Tank explained.

"_You mean the one who could eat anything and not get sick?_"

"The same."

Marie hummed. "_Maybe I should try out some new recipes on him,_" she joked.

Tank cracked a small smile. "Not that you'd get much of a reaction," she mused wryly. "He's pretty stoic."

"_And what about this Reaper fellow you mentioned?_" Her mother's voice took on a sly tone. "_You seem to be pretty worried about him._"

Tank sighed. "His name is John Grimm," she explained. "He's the rookie that dad and grandpa met when they were out in California with me."

"_Oh, the broody one,_" Marie surmised. Tank blinked, and pulled the PDA away from her ear in order to stare at it incredulously. After a minute, she put it back to her ear.

"Broody?" she asked, her tone flat. "Mom, you have no fucking _idea_."

"_Oh, do tell,_" Marie teased. Tank sighed.

"Aren't you guys eating dinner, or something?"

"_We all had a big lunch._"

"Great," Tank groaned.

"_Now stop trying to change the subject and answer the question, Amanda._"

Tank sighed again. "He's about six-four, has dark brown hair and hazel eyes," she rattled off. "Kind of looks like Karl Urban, the actor from the two-thousands."

"_Is he cute?_"

Tank sighed, her gaze taking on a dreamy quality as she thought about her newest teammate.

"Hotter than hell on a hot summer's day," she replied absently. Then she realized what she had just said when she heard her mother giggle. "Don't tell _anyone_ I just said that!"

"_Keith?_" Marie called.

"_MOM!_"

Marie chuckled. "_Hey, I don't think they heard you over in China,_" she joked.

"Mom," Tank groaned. "_Please_, don't tell _anyone_. It's bad enough that I even _like_ how he looks! If anything came of it, it could get me or him killed on a mission."

"_Don't worry, I won't tell a soul..._"

"Thanks."

"_...except for your father._"

"Mom, you're not helping," Tank growled. She heard her mother laugh.

"_So who came up with his nickname?_"

"I did," Tank replied with a sigh. "I was listening to Blue Oyster Cult's _Don't Fear the Reaper_ this morning when we were flying up to D.C., and I thought that the song fit him. Thus I named him Reaper."

"_So it has nothing to do with his last name being Grimm?_" Marie asked. Tank blinked, paused in thought, and then laughed.

"I didn't think about it that way earlier," she admitted, "but it's actually funny now that you mention it."

"_So what's it like to have the Grim Reaper on your squad?_" Marie teased. Tank sighed and decided to humor her.

"There's certainly never a dull moment," she said dryly. Then she paused.

"_And?_" Marie prompted. Tank swallowed.

"I say this at the risk of sounding like a lovesick puppy, but he makes it all worthwhile, mom. All of it."

**-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

**_Disclaimer: Don't own it._**

**_And there's chapter 12. Hope you all enjoyed it, and I hope that the last sentence wasn't too sappy. If it was, Tank will be forevermore teased about being a "lovesick puppy"._**

**_Sorry for the day-late update, though. Shit happened, and I didn't get it posted yesterday. Next chapter should be on time, though._**

**_I have nothing more to say, and since nobody has said a word about the last chapter, I will assume that you liked it. Hope you enjoy this one, too._**

**_Next chapter will be posted 9-21-09._**

_**-P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	14. 2041 AD Washington DC 1105 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum**_

_**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_In war, there are no unwounded soldiers."  
-Jose Narosky_

_**Chapter 13.**_

**-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

_**2041 A.D. - ?????? - ???? hours**_

_It took Amanda a full eight weeks after he joined to realize that when John was upset, he tended to go outside and sulk. So it was that, when she couldn't find him anywhere in the barracks after their daily training, her search led her outside. Sure enough, she found John sitting against the wall to the left of the door. He had an unlit cigarette in his mouth, and he was playing with a lighter absently, flicking it on and off, on and off, on and off._

_Concern flooded Amanda's mind, for what, she didn't know. She took a seat to his left, pulling her knees up near her chest and resting her elbows against them._

_"What's on your mind, monkey-butt?"_

_He gave her a 'what-the-fuck-are-_you­_-smoking' look. She returned it with one of her own._

_"You've never seen Home Alone three?" she prompted incredulously. He shook his head, and she sighed. "You poor, deprived soul."_

_There was a brief silence._

_"I just don't get it," he admitted, as though she hadn't spoken. She looked back over at him, watching him look up at the sky like he was searching for an answer. "No matter what I do, no matter how much training I put in, I still can't keep up with you guys."_

_Amanda looked at him for a long moment. When she didn't reply immediately, John snorted and finally lit up, inhaling the smoke and holding it in his lungs for a few seconds before he exhaled._

_"How long've you been smoking?" she questioned at last. He shrugged, taking the cancer stick out of his mouth and holding it between his fingers, watching it studiously as it smoldered._

_"A year? Two years?" He shook his head, and looked over at her. "What's it matter?"_

_Amanda pressed her lips together nervously, and then scooted around so that she was sitting in front of him._

_"Please don't get mad at me," she implored him. "I'm going to be frank with you."_

_He sighed, and took a long drag. "Fine."_

_Amanda reached forward and pointed to his chest._

_"First of all, the more you smoke, the more carbon monoxide and carbon dioxide you inhale," she began. "The carbon monoxide binds itself to your red blood cells more easily than oxygen does, and the oxygen can't attach itself to your blood as readily. This results in a lower oxygen concentration in your blood, and it also means that your body doesn't get enough energy. You get fatigued more easily, you have trouble breathing. Secondly, the nicotine in the cigarette smoke is a stimulant. It raises your blood pressure, helps clog your arteries, and generally causes bad things to happen."_

_She placed her hand over his heart, staring him in the eye. "Your heart has to work harder and faster to get the right amount of oxygen to your brain and muscles. You get fatigued even faster."_

_John scrutinized her, and then looked at his cigarette. "So, what you're saying is that I could do better if I wasn't smoking?"_

_Amanda nodded. "That's exactly it. You'd certainly be able to keep up in our runs better."_

_Amanda watched John swallow._

_"So, if I quit now, would my body stay in this bad of shape?"_

_She shook her head. "No, it wouldn't. Usually, if a person quits smoking, their body will return to how it was prior to smoking in about a year. Sometimes sooner."_

_John sighed, took another drag of his cigarette, and then snuffed it out on the hard ground. His gaze was resigned but determined when he looked back up at her._

_"Then I'm quitting."_

_Amanda smiled proudly. "Good for you. If you ever need any help, then just ask me."_

_"I'll be counting on that."_

_"Glad to be of service," she teased. "When you get the jitters, I'll be sure to hide your pack."_

_He rolled his eyes, but reached into his back pocket and pulled out a slightly-squashed, half-smoked pack of Marlboros. He stared at them for a long second before he looked at Amanda and placed them in her hand. She blinked._

_"I wasn't serious, you know," she said, taken aback. He frowned slightly._

_"I am, though," he stated. "I'm probably gonna need some help, here."_

_There were a few seconds of silence. That almost-familiar heat of affection welled in Amanda's chest, and she smiled gently before pocketing the cigarettes. Then she reached into her right pocket and pulled out an unopened pack of Wrigley's. She took his hand in hers and placed the gum in his palm before closing his fingers over it. He stared at it curiously._

_"Then I'll support you the whole way," she promised. "This is to help take your mind off the withdrawal."_

_He eyed her._

_"Will you spit shake on it?"_

_Amanda gaped at him as though he had grown another head. "'Spit shake'? What are you, ten?"_

_John glared at her, but it lacked potency. "Then what would you prefer? A written contract signed in blood?"_

_Amanda pretended to ponder it seriously. When John realized this, he gave her a look that was part unease and part exasperation._

_"I'm kidding," he deadpanned. Amanda finally cracked a grin._

_"I think a spit shake will work," she snickered. She held up her hand to her face, spat into her palm, and then held that hand out to John. He shook his head in good-natured humor, and mimicked her actions. They shook on it, wiped their hands on their pants, and Amanda sat back down next to him._

_This time, the silence was comfortable and friendly._

**-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

_**2041 A.D. - Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Washington, D.C. - 1105 hours**_

"Got any fives?"

"Go fish."

"Fuck!" Tank swore, and reached for the 'fishing pool'. She groaned when she saw that she had gotten a seven, and added it to her hand. Then Tank shot a glare over at Reaper, who was lying in the bed to her left.

It was July third, two days after the D.C. mission during which they'd lost Indian and Hound. Reaper had left the ICU conscious and lucid on July second, and had been moved into the same room as Tank. They'd finally gotten bored with sleeping and the tense silence, though, and the next time Pug had visited them she'd had him get a deck of cards out of her flak vest that she always carried with her.

That was how their game had started... _yesterday._

"Got any sevens?" he asked.

"Fuck!" Tank slid it over to him across the small table they'd set up between their beds, and he picked it up with a flourish and a smirk.

Yes. They were still playing Go Fish.

"Why, thank you," Reaper quipped.

"Go fuck yourself," Tank snapped grouchily. Reaper lifted his head from his pillow a few inches to give her an incredulous look.

"How'm I supposed to do that?" he retorted. "I'm not that flexible, even uninjured."

The game halted for a long moment. She gave him a weird look.

"Did you _seriously_ just try to make a joke out of that?" They blinked. Stared at each other. Then he shrugged, shaking his head.

"Forget it. But what's got you all worked up?" he asked. Tank snarled, her eyes darting around the room as she gesticulated wildly with both hands.

"The fucking doctors won't even let me use crutches, yet!" she ranted. "_Crutches!_ I can't fucking go the fucking _bathroom_ without assistance that I _don't fucking need!_"

"I don't see why you're complaining," Reaper stated with a slight frown. "At least you can actually _move_ without your wounds hurting."

"Only 'cause they've got me so doped up that I can't feel it," Tank grumbled, but sighed and glanced at her cards. "I never thought that I would be one to say this, being a med specialist, but I am fucking _bored._ I want outta here."

"Me, too," Reaper replied. "Got any eights?"

"Damn you!" Tank handed over her eight of hearts to him, leaving her with a six of clubs, a five of hearts, a queen of diamonds, an ace of spades, and one joker.

"Got any twos?"

"Go fucking fish," she groused. Reaper chuckled and drew a card from the pile on the table.

"You don't play cards much, do you?" he asked with a chuckle. Tank sighed.

"Not unless you count solitaire," she mumbled. "Got any jokers?"

"Damn," he muttered, and passed his joker to her. She accepted it, and put it and her own joker into her small pile of pairs.

"Got any aces?"

"Go fish," he returned.

"So, you still want to come to Missouri with me?" Tank asked as she pulled a random ace from the pile and added it and her other one to her pairs dump.

"Sure." Reaper glanced over his cards, and then his hazel eyes met Tank's dark brown ones over the table. "Got any tens?"

Tank checked her cards. "Go fish. Got any sixes?"

"Go fish."

"Fuck!" This time, her swear was combined with a good-natured laugh.

"So, where'd you get these playing cards?" he inquired lightly. "Got any fives?"

"Damn you," she mumbled, handing over the card. "I got 'em from the bookstore at the college my mom used to go to."

"When was that?" He absently began to rearrange his cards in his hand.

"Last time I was on leave," she replied. "After Christmas."

"Hmm. Got any threes?"

"Go fish," she sighed. "Got any queens?"

Reaper sighed, and handed over the queen of spades.

"Thank you," she quipped with a grin, tucking it into her pairs pile along with her queen of diamonds. "Got any sixes?"

He wordlessly slid the six of hearts he had just drawn over to her. "Thanks again. Do you have any fives?"

He passed her the five of hearts.

"Fours?"

"Go fish," Reaper mumbled. Tank drew another card from the pile, finding it to be the king of spades.

It was then that the door opened and Sarge walked in, flanked by Dr. McAllister and a nurse. The injured pair looked up at them inquiringly.

"Men," Sarge said to them. "These two are going to check you over one last time, and then you're free to go, according to Doctor McAllister."

Tank was elated. "Yes!" she whooped.

Reaper cast her a sidelong glance, but said nothing. Dr. McAllister came over to Tank.

"Will you hold still long enough for me to make sure you're on the mend?"

Tank gave a long-suffering sigh, but couldn't hold back the smile that was on her face. "If I have to."

Dr. McAllister frowned at her patient, but got to work nonetheless. "Turn over."

"Yes, ma'am," Tank said, and immediately rolled herself so that she was lying on her stomach. Tank glanced over at Reaper and watched him avert his gaze.

Tank lay still and patient as Dr. McAllister moved the hospital gown in order to see where Tank's bandages were located underneath the thin blue fabric. Then she waited as the doctor removed the bandages.

It was when her wound was prodded that Tank hissed and glared over her shoulder at the doctor, whom she had formed a mutual dislike for.

"That fucking _hurts_, you know!" Tank griped irritably.

"Oh, come _on_," Dr. McAllister bit out, prodding the wound in Tank's thigh. "It's only a flesh wound."

"That shrapnel went through my fucking _ass_," Tank growled, "not to mention my hamstring muscles. That metal went fucking _deep_, so don't you tell me it was only a fucking _flesh wound_."

Tank went to turn back around, but caught Sarge staring at her wounds, and pointedly raised an eyebrow at him.

"Like what you see, _Sarge?_" she ground out, her tone promising retribution if he didn't avert his gaze. Sarge blinked, and looked at her before clearing his throat.

"I just didn't realize that it was that bad," he replied. Tank rolled her eyes and shook her head. Her gaze caught Reaper staring subtly at her out of the corner of his eyes, but she didn't call him on it, feeling fed up enough with the doctor and Sarge as it was.

"Stop talking," Dr. McAllister ordered. Tank grumbled, but did as she was told, resting her chin on her folded arms and glaring at the wall at the head of her bed. The doctor finished after a few minutes, and nodded to the nurse, who came over to bandage Tank back up.

"Just go and get those stitches out at the local clinic," Dr. McAllister instructed Tank. "I'd give 'em about a week and a half or so."

"Great," Tank drawled, rolling her eyes yet again. "So can I walk on crutches, now, or not?"

"Yes," the doctor answered. "But immobilize it as much as possible for the next few days."

"Yes, ma'am," Tank murmured, the bite of sarcasm thick in her voice. Then she saw Dr. McAllister move on to Reaper.

"How do you feel today, Lance Corporal Grimm?" she said, her tone much kinder than it had been with Tank. Reaper looked up at her, and Tank could tell that he was trying to remain polite.

"Well enough," he replied. "I can sit up alright if I move slowly. Haven't tried walking, yet."

"Right," Dr. McAllister said. "Can you sit up now so that I can examine you?"

Reaper sighed. "Sure," he mumbled, and struggled into a sitting position.

Tank quietly thanked the nurse when she finished bandaging her, and turned back over so that she could make herself modest once more. The nurse nodded to Tank, and then moved over to help the doctor with Reaper.

By this time, Reaper had sat up, and the doctor was removing his hospital gown and the bandages that were wrapped tightly around his well-muscled chest.

Tank wet her lips and looked away, only to see Sarge smirking at her knowingly. Tank flipped him the bird and leaned back against her pillows, staring at the ceiling. _Men!_

It was a few minutes later that she heard Reaper grunt in what seemed to be pain, and looked over at him to see him wincing as Dr. McAllister pressed on his bared side. Tank openly stared, then.

Reaper's chest was covered with bruises, some a deep black, others purple, and others yellow or green. Tank couldn't tear her eyes away, an unexplained feeling of mortification spreading through her.

"Shit, Sarge, you weren't fucking _kidding,_" Tank muttered.

"Of course not," Sarge retorted. "Why would I understate the condition of my men?"

"I know, but this..." Tank trailed off, shaking her head. "This is even worse than _my_ side looked when I got my ribs cracked last year!"

Sarge didn't reply, but Reaper met Tank's gaze and gave her a small, reassuring nod. _'I'll be fine,'_ the look in his hazel eyes told her.

Tank sighed, and briefly glanced away before she looked back at him, scanning his torso again. She tried to ignore the fluttering sensation in her stomach.

"You, Corporal Grimm, I am confining to a wheelchair," Dr. McAllister said after several long moments. "You are in no condition to be trying to walk even across the room, let alone run or anything of that sort."

Reaper sighed heavily, then winced when the action jostled his healing ribs. "Yes, ma'am," he mumbled.

"Now that that's sorted out," Dr. McAllister said, moving aside for the nurse to rebandage Reaper's ribs. "I am satisfied with your healing so far, and I will release both of you on the conditions that you do not train or anything of that sort for the next two weeks on Lance Corporal Halley's part, and for the next month on the part of Lance Corporal Grimm. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," the three Marines chorused.

"Don't worry, doctor," Sarge said, eyeing Tank and Reaper, "I'll make sure they don't do anything _too_ strenuous."

The doctor shot him a look. "I _mean_ it, Sergeant," she said firmly. "If Lance Corporal Halley uses her leg before it is fully healed, then she may damage her muscles so that she is never able to walk on it properly again." She gestured to Reaper. "And if Lance Corporal Grimm does something to aggravate his injuries, then he may find himself on his deathbed!"

"I hear and understand, doctor," Sarge said calmly, "and you have my word that they will not do anything terribly strenuous for the next two months."

Tank blinked at Sarge. "Two months?" she questioned, raising her eyebrows.

"Two months," Sarge affirmed. "You have off until the end of August."

Tank's balled-up left fist shot into the air, pumping up and down in an elated cheer.

"_Yes!_" she hissed, excited by the prospect.

Reaper just smiled faintly, and wondered vaguely what the strange sensation in the pit of his stomach was.

Tank was oblivious to his plight.

**-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

**_Disclaimer: Don't own them. Except for Tank. I own her._**

_If you couldn't tell, I've pretty much given up on using the line breaks that the site provides. They never work right._

_Not much to say for this chapter, except that I had a lot of fun writing the spit-shake scene. I kind of liked the idea of Reaper acting a little childish. Hee hee, he makes a fun "big kid" to write._

_Well, since nobody reviewed the last chapter, either, I have nobody to thank. Since nobody's reviewed the last **two** chapters, I'm wondering if I should even bother, anymore. Does anybody want me to keep writing, or is it all just crap that nobody reads? I mean, I know that people have me on their alert lists, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. It's supremely discouraging when people don't even bother to leave me a "Hey, great job, keep writing!" or even a "Fuck tis shit, its srsly so bad so u need 2 tk dwn it"._

_...Sigh._

_Next chapter should be posted 9-28-09._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	15. 2041 AD St Louis Missouri 1200 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum**_

_**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

_"I am not dead yet/ I can dance and I can sing/ I am not dead yet/ I can do the highland fling/ I am not dead yet/ No need to go to bed/ No need to call the doctor/ 'Cause I'm not yet dead!"__  
__--Monty Python, "Spamalot"_

_**Chapter 14.**_

**-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

_**2041 A.D. - ?????? - ???? hours**_

_"Hey, how you doing?"_

_"Ugh." John looked warily at Amanda as she groaned quietly and leaned her head on her knees. "I feel like shit."_

_His dark eyebrows shot upwards towards his even darker hair._

_"What from?" he inquired._

_Amanda groaned. "Do I _have_ to say it?"_

_John blinked for a moment. Then realization hit, and he winced before sitting down next to her._

_"That time of the month, is it?"_

_Amanda sighed and buried her face in her knees again. "Don't remind me. It's bad enough with the bloating and the cramps, but my back's aching, too, and I can't find my ibuprofen."_

_John smiled with some empathy. "Sam used to drink raspberry tea when she got cramps."_

_Amanda looked up at him, raising her eyebrows in surprise._

_"Wow, you're actually not _running_ at the mention of feminine matters," she observed with some fake wonder. Most of it was sincere, though._

_He gave her an Air Force salute, meaning that he shrugged. "The last time I saw Sam was in thirty-six. Trust me, I know about these 'feminine matters', as you called them."_

_Amanda stared at him for a long moment, and then chuckled and leaned her forehead against her knees again. She stiffened for a few seconds, and then John watched the tension melt from her slight form like water draining from a vessel._

_"You've got it really bad, don't you?" he asked gently. She gave a strangled moan, hugging her knees tight as another cramp hit her._

_"Yeah," she whined. "And it totally sucks, too, 'cause this is the only time that I get all hormonal, and the pain makes me irritable, and then people don't want to be around me, and it just..."_

_"Blows?"_

_"Blows, yeah." She sighed. "You'll never see me get weepy except when I'm like this, I guarantee it."_

_He raised an eyebrow, slightly amused. "Believe me, if I can deal with _Sam_ when she's on her period, I can deal with you."_

_She peered up at him with one dark eye. "I keep forgetting you have a sister."_

_John raised his other eyebrow. "Is it really so easy?"_

_Amanda snorted, and her eye disappeared back into her knee. "It's going on eleven years since I've seen her, and you two barely look a thing alike. Plus, you don't exactly make it a point to talk about her very often."_

_John chuckled, and pulled his lighter out of his pocket. Amanda peeked out at him again, watching him flip it on and off repeatedly. It was something he had started doing after he quit._

_"Why do you do that?" she questioned. John looked over at her, and then at the lighter in his hands. Then he shrugged._

_"Habit, I guess," he admitted. "Call me asiatic, but I can't seem to shake it."_

_"You'll get it eventually, I'm sure," she quipped dryly. She eyed him. "Is there anything you needed, or are you just here to annoy me?"_

_John gave a chuckle. She could see his hands trembling. After all, it had only been a week or so since he had quit smoking, cold turkey. Amanda knew that it was hitting him hard. She'd tried to be nice to him, but it was difficult not to tease._

_"Just need something to do," he admitted. Amanda raised an eyebrow at him. She struggled for a second, but the temptation was too strong._

_"You know, I'm sure Portman would suit that role just fine," she said. He turned and openly stared at her for several seconds, his jaw hanging open. It was a classic 'What the FUCK?!' look._

_Finally, she couldn't hold it in any longer, and a snicker erupted out of her throat, then another, and another until her face crumpled and she buried her forehead back into her knees, her shoulders shaking in breathless mirth. John gave an awkward laugh when he realized that she was joking, and his fingers flicked the lighter on and off even faster._

_"That wasn't funny," he muttered. The lighter flipped on and off faster, faster, until his hands were barely a blur._

_"Yes, it was," she returned. Her right hand lashed out, covering the wrist of the hand with the lighter in it, and John stopped igniting it. She lifted her head up enough to grin at him._

_"Thanks for cheering me up, John," Amanda said, and her voice was sincere, even if her gaze was dancing with mirth. He hesitantly returned the grin._

_"You're welcome?" It was a question. "But seriously, do you need anything? I can make you some tea, if you'd like, or some hot chocolate. Sam used to tell me that I make really good hot chocolate."_

_Amanda couldn't help it; she cracked up again. It took her several seconds to be able to speak. Wiping her streaming eyes, she pointed a finger in John's direction._

_"Dude, seriously, _stop_ that," she ordered. "Or I'm going to have to take away your man license."_

_John looked affronted._

_"Excuse me for wanting to help," he retorted, but his eyes were twinkling. It was something that Amanda had never thought she would see. John was well and truly laughing at her._

_"Dude, you looked like a wet cat."_

_"Dude, I seriously can't believe you just used the word 'dude'."_

_She snickered. "You just used it, too."_

_"Dude, that is, like, so seventies."_

_Amanda was in stitches, by this time. "You're terrible!"_

_John laughed. He eyed her with a sly smile. "That's what Sam tells me... dudette."_

_Amanda fell over with a squawk. John's mirth redoubled at her plight, and soon both of them were roaring helplessly, John holding onto the wall as he clutched his belly, and Amanda rolling on the ground with tears in her eyes._

_"That... That was... was so sixties...!" she wheezed before giggling madly. "I can't _believe _you..."_

_She trailed off, unable to finish her sentence._

_That was how Sarge found them... ten minutes later. His eyebrows shot up as he allowed the door to the barracks to close behind him, taking in the sight before him. Amanda was lying on the ground with tears running down her cheeks, appearing utterly breathless, and John was no better, leaning heavily on the wall._

_"Just _what _is going on here?" Sarge asked incredulously. Amanda and John froze for an instant, staring up at him like deer caught in the headlights. Then they looked at each other as though for guidance. A second passed. Then they snorted and dissolved into giggles again._

_Sarge's eyes would have disappeared into his hairline, had he had one._

_"Are you two high?" he inquired, slightly worried. He didn't _smell_ any marijuana or cocaine... but that didn't necessarily mean anything._

_Gasping, Amanda finally managed to sit up, and gave Sarge a slightly loopy grin._

_"No, sir," she replied, barely holding back her giggles. "We're just discussing sisters, sixties surfer lingo, and various home remedies for painful periodic bodily functions."_

_Sarge looked blankly at her._

_"Meaning what, exactly?" he asked. Amanda and John exchanged glances, and John dissolved into snickers again. Amanda looked up at Sarge with a grin._

_"Meaning that I'm on my period, and John offered to make me some hot chocolate," she replied. Sarge blinked at her for a second, and then his cheeks darkened, and he looked away._

_He cleared his throat. "Well, I'll leave you to that, then."_

_And he headed back inside._

_"Sarge!" Amanda called before he could shut the door all the way. He reappeared after a second, giving her a questioning look. His cheeks were still slightly pink._

_"What is it?" he inquired. Amanda gave him the old 'surfers' sign', showing him the back of her right hand with all her fingers tucked in save for her pinky and thumb. She wiggled her hand back and forth._

_"Hang loose! And could you get me a tampon?"_

_Sarge's face flared red. He quickly vanished into the depths of the barracks, leaving Amanda and John to laugh over the older man's discomfort._

_Because really, embarrassing Sarge was _too_ much fun. Seriously._

**-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

_**2041 A.D. - St. Louis, Missouri - 1200 hours**_

Tank watched the familiar scenery move by outside the window of the van that they'd rented once they arrived at Lambert-St. Louis International Airport in St. Louis, Missouri. She was excited, and the twinkle in her gaze showed it. Mind, she was still tired from the mission three days ago, but her elation at being home and the prospect of seeing her family again had pushed her weariness aside.

After all, it was July fourth, and Tank _liked_ fireworks.

Tank looked over her left shoulder to smile at Reaper, her mind drifting back to the events of the day before.

Tank and Reaper had been released from the Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C. at around 1300 hours, and they and the rest of the squad had taken the chopper back to the barracks. Reaper had grumbled most of the way about having to use a wheelchair, until Portman had finally told him to shut up and stop whining like a pussy.

Reaper had _not_ liked that.

Tank still grinned when she recalled the blistering comeback that had flown out of Reaper's normally-polite mouth, and the reaction it had brought out of Portman. Needless to say, the blond man had not joined Tank, Goat, and Reaper for their vacation to Missouri.

Tank had called her parents when they'd arrived back at the barracks at about 1530 hours, and told them that she and the boys were taking the next flight out of Ontario International airport. Then she had put away her gear, packed the remaining things that she had needed, changed into some civvies, and rounded up the people who were going to Missouri with her.

Goat, Reaper, and Pug had quickly grabbed their own duffel bags, and then, after reporting to Sarge, the four of them and Hellraiser had departed for Ontario. Tank had squirmed anxiously in her seat the whole hour and a half it took to reach the airport, even going so far as to distract herself by calling ahead and ordering four coach flight tickets to San Fransisco and for the flight from San Fransisco to St. Louis.

Then they'd reached the airport, and Goat, Pug, Reaper, and Tank had flown up to San Fransisco while Hellraiser had cheerfully driven the Humvee back to the barracks. The four Marines had had a layover in the port city, where they'd had to stay the night in a hotel due to their flight being over-booked.

They'd flown out of San Fransisco the next day around 0800 hours Pacific Time. Their flight had taken two hours, and they'd crossed over two time zones. It was 1000 hours Pacific Time when they'd arrived at the Lambert-St. Louis International Airport, which was about 1200 hours Central Time.

The quartet of Marines had made their way out of the airport, rented a van, and then headed on their way. Tank, of course, was the navigator, so she sat in shotgun. Goat was the driver.

Currently, Tank directed Goat onto Page Avenue from North Lindbergh Boulevard, and then, after a few minutes of driving, saw the interchange that she had been looking for.

"There, Goat," she said, and pointed. "You're going to want to merge onto I-270 South."

Goat nodded comprehensively, and then Tank turned back to Pug and Reaper, grinning.

"You guys are going to like this place, I think," she said, "and my family can't _wait_ to meet you."

Reaper offered her a weak smile, while Pug grinned excitedly back at her.

"So, what's the geographical layout?" asked Reaper after a second. Tank blinked, and raised an eyebrow.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Parks, places of significance..." Reaper trailed off vaguely, and Tank smiled at him with a slight roll of her eyes.

"We live across from a park," she said. "And there are a whole bunch of other parks in the nearby area. In St. Louis proper, there's Forest Park, which contains the St. Louis Zoo, the Art Museum on Art Hill, the Butterfly House, and the Muny Theatre. There's also the Cardinals' Stadium, Busch Stadium, and the America Center."

She glanced up at the road signs, seeing that they'd just passed the exit onto Olive Boulevard.

"We're going to get off at Manchester," she told Goat. He glanced at her and nodded. Then Tank continued to tell her squad mates about her hometown.

"There're a lot of libraries in the area," she said, "most of them just about a five or ten minutes' drive away. Not to mention there's Jefferson Barracks down off of Sheridan and Telegraph. That's the cemetery, by the way, and the barracks themselves are next to it." She glanced out the windshield again, seeing another street sign pass them by.

"The cemetery is really old," Tank continued. "Some of the graves, I think, even date back to the Revolutionary War. But don't quote me on that. There are a lot more from the Civil War onward, though, obviously."

"Cool," said Pug. "I have never been to Missouri, before."

"Neither have I," admitted Reaper, his voice quiet. He glanced out the window. "It's a lot... _greener_ here than it was in California and in Nevada."

Tank nodded. "Yeah, us Missourians like our nature reserves," she said with a small smirk. "I think once you're healed enough to walk, or to ride a bike, we all should take a day-trip to the Katy Trail. You know, visit some wineries, see some sights... that sort of thing."

Reaper's lips twitched in a small smile, and Pug grinned.

"Is it true that the Anheuser-Busch breweries are located in St. Louis?" he asked. Tank laughed.

"Yes," she said, "since this _is_ where they originated. In fact, they even run a little park down near where my brother goes to school. Grant's Farm is what it's called."

"With the Clydesdales?" asked Pug eagerly.

"With the Clydesdales," chuckled Tank. "And across the river in Illinois is the Cahokia Mounds state park in Caseyville."

"Sounds like there's a lot to see and do in Missouri," said Goat. "Is this the road?"

Tank faced forward again, careful not to jostle her left hip and leg too much, and nodded. "Yeah, that's it."

Goat turned off the highway, heading westbound. Tank grinned over at him. "Now we only have about ten minutes before we get there, considering the traffic."

Goat cracked a shadow of a smile at her excitement. Tank then carefully turned around in her seat, looking back eastward.

"Actually, the church my family goes to is just a little back that way," she said. "My brother and sister both went to the associated school through eighth grade."

Now Goat glanced at her again. "A church, you say?" he asked softly.

Tank nodded. She couldn't seem to stop smiling. "Yeah," she replied. "Mom works for them, actually. It's a pretty conservative church."

"I see," Goat murmured. Tank studied him for a moment, and then her smile widened a fraction.

"You can go with us on Sunday, if you want," she said. "The pastors usually give good sermons."

"Maybe I will," Goat said. Tank smiled, and glanced out the window again to see that they'd just passed Mason Road.

"You'll want to turn right at the next big intersection and head north," she instructed him. "I'll point it out to you."

Goat nodded, and shifted into the right lane as Tank pulled out her PDA and dialed her home number.

"Better let them know we're almost there," she muttered, and faced forward in her seat, wincing a little as her wounds pressed into the cushion.

"Hey!" she called into the mike when somebody picked up on the other end.

"_Hey, yourself!_" her dad laughed. "_Where are you?_"

"Turning onto Weidman now," Tank replied as Goat took the right-hand turn onto the aforementioned street. "We'll be there in five minutes or so." She paused, glancing back over her shoulder at Reaper. "Could you put Sadie and Bear out back? We do have some injured people with us."

"_Including yourself,_" Keith muttered. Tank sighed.

"Yes, including myself," she said. "I just know how Sadie is with strange men, and we aren't all at the top of our game."

"_Will do,_" Keith said. "_See you in a few minutes, sweets._"

"Sure," Tank affirmed. "Love you, dad."

"_Love you, too._"

"See you," Tank said, and then hung up. She glanced out the driver-side window to see that they were passing a main intersection. She turned forward, watching the houses speed by.

Three and a half minutes later, Tank pointed to a subdivision entrance. "There," she said. "That house right there, with the brick face."

Goat dutifully turned on his turn signal, slowed down, and then turned down a short hill into a driveway. Tank had him stop about halfway down.

"Okay, Reaps, here's where you and I get out," she said. "Our garage and basement are down there, and it's steps all the way. Besides, it's probably better if you enter around the front."

Then she turned to Goat. "After we get out, you should go down and park in our drive," she said. "It's the old concrete one, not the blacktop. Just come around front."

"Roger that," he said. Tank frowned at him until she saw the faint twinkle in his eye when he glanced at her. She smirked, and punched him lightly in the shoulder.

"Stop that, you maniac," she chided, and then said, louder, "We're on vacation, boys! Let's have ourselves a good time!"

She and Pug laughed, and Reaper cracked a smile. Tank was still grinning as she grabbed her crutches and carefully got out of the van. Pug helped Reaper get his wheelchair out and helped him into it. Tank grabbed her duffel bag, slung its long strap across her shoulder, and hobbled around to the driver's side of the van, where Reaper was waiting for her, his hand firmly grasping the chair's brakes so that he didn't go rolling down the hill.

"Come on," she said, and thanked Pug with a nod. Then she led Reaper around the small ornamental garden at the corner of the sidewalk and into the grass to avoid the small steps that were placed at intervals along the concrete path.

Tank heard Goat continue down the driveway to park as she expertly guided Reaper around the sidewalk and up to the front door, where he waited while she went up to get her father's help.

Tank's hands were full, so she bent over slightly and rang the doorbell using her forehead. She ignored Reaper's snicker behind her, and waited patiently while she heard a clamor. A second later, the front door opened, and her parents came out to greet her.

"You're home!" her mother exclaimed, wrapping Tank in a hug. Tank winced as her leg was jostled.

"Mom!" she gasped. "Watch the leg!"

"Oh, oh!" Marie exclaimed, and backed off. It was then that she saw Reaper waiting on the sidewalk, and she smiled at him, her brandy-brown eyes twinkling behind her bifocals.

"You must be the Grim Reaper I've heard so much about," Marie said, coming down to meet Reaper while Keith carefully hugged his daughter.

Reaper blinked. "I don't know about a Grim Reaper, ma'am," he said. "I'm Lance Corporal John Grimm. It's nice to meet you."

Marie smiled. "Well, it's nice to meet you, too," she returned. Then she eyed his wheelchair. "Can you walk up these steps, or should we get some assistance?"

"No, I can make it up two steps, I think," Reaper told her. He started to get out of his wheelchair, and grunted, wincing as his ribs protested. When he was finally standing, Tank could see the acute discomfort that was painted on his face.

"Dad?" Tank asked, her eyes flicking to the other Marine. Keith smiled at his daughter, and walked down to meet Reaper.

"Mr. Grimm," Keith greeted, shaking Reaper's hand.

"Mr. Halley," Reaper returned. Keith grinned as he amiably, but carefully, took Reaper's elbow in his hands.

"I hear you got some nice bruises on your last mission," Keith said conversationally.

"Yes, sir." Reaper took a painful breath as he stepped up the tallest step, bringing him onto the front porch. Tank smiled encouragingly at him, and then looked back to the sidewalk as Goat and Pug came up carrying their duffel bags, Pug toting Reaper's along with him.

"Well, I can make some tea, if you want. The heat'll help you feel better," Keith offered. Tank knew that he was mostly trying to distract Reaper from the pain of his ribs as they stepped up the last step and crossed into the house.

"Some tea might be nice," Reaper grunted. Tank could see him grimace, and then just-visibly sigh with relief as they stopped just inside the doorway.

Marie, meanwhile, was greeting Goat and Pug with hugs, which Goat received awkwardly and Pug returned emphatically. She ushered them inside with words of the plans for the evening on her lips.

Tank smiled at her mother as the older woman passed her, Reaper's lightweight wheelchair in hand. After setting the chair inside, Marie turned to her daughter, and brought her hand up to caress Tank's cheek.

"Welcome home, baby," Marie said with a bittersweet smile. Tank smiled, tears welling in her eyes.

"It's good to be home," she replied. Then she and her mother went inside, where Tank's squadmates were being greeted by the rest of Tank's family.

As soon as Tank stepped inside the door, she was all but tackled by her cousin and best friend. As Tank blinked away her shock and pain, Tori Silverman and Amanda Mallory pulled away. Tori glared at her taller cousin.

"You had me worried sick!" Tori exclaimed. "What were you thinking?!"

Tank blinked at her again, but Tori was already ranting. Tank sighed with a small, long-suffering grin, and let her blond cousin get her angry raving out of her system. Tori exhausted her words after a few minutes, and ended with a frustrated growl before she glared up at Tank.

"Don't you _ever_ scare me like that again!" Tori ordered firmly. Tank affected an innocent look. It didn't work, seeing as she was on crutches and trying not to laugh.

"Yes, ma'am," Tank said, her voice a dramatic whimper. There was dead silence for a second. Then Tori's lips twitched, and she broke into laughter, hugging Tank around the middle. Tank carefully reached around and patted Tori on the back.

Reaper and Goat just looked on with some confusion, while Pug chatted in the background with Keith.

Finally, after Tori let her go, Tank was hugged by her other best friend, Amanda Mallory.

"I'm glad you're back," Amanda told Tank when they parted. "Tori wouldn't stop ranting about how stupid you are, and how she was going to sic Kakashi on you when you got back."

"Is that all?" Tank asked with a tired chuckle. Amanda shook her head, her light brown bangs moving with the motion.

"She was also ranting about how if you died she would drag you back from hell and flay you alive before killing you again," Amanda relayed. Tank chuckled, and Tori grinned unabashedly.

"You know I'd do it, too," Tori quipped amiably. Tank snickered.

"I do know it," she replied. Then she noticed Goat and Reaper looking a bit lost, and cleared her throat to be heard over the noise of conversation.

"Everybody," she called. All eyes in the room turned towards her. Tank gestured to the two silent Marines beside her.

"These are Corporal Eric Fantom and Lance Corporal John Grimm," Tank explained, gesturing to each in turn. Goat nodded in greeting, and Reaper lifted his left hand in a small wave from where he had sat back down in his wheelchair.

"And this is PFC Adam Olaf," Tank said, turning to her other side to introduce Pug.

"Pug, Goat, Reaper," Tank said to her squadmates, "meet my family."

What followed was a long session of further introductions and greetings. By the end of it, Tank was almost certain that Reaper wanted to murder her.

She just smiled sweetly in response to his death glare.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own anybody you recognize. That means that I currently own everybody except Reaper and Goat. *huggles Pug* I likes my German ass-kicker._

_I LIIIIIIVE!_

_I sincerely apologize for the recent lack of updates. My computer decided that it was going to randomly start erasing crucial data one day, so now half the programs on my PC don't work right. Blegh. That includes my internet settings. I just got it back in the middle of last week, right when I was studying for an algebra test that, unfortunately, took priority over posting this chapter. I literally **cried**. Sigh._

_On the other hand, I have gotten some good feedback from folks. Thank you for telling me what you think, and for your support. Your words are a balm for a flagging spirit. To **JayDee** and **Hidden Relevance**- your words were highly encouraging. Sometimes it only takes a few sentences to lift my spirits, and you guys did just that. Thank you so much!_

_**Hidden Relevance** posed a good question about the flashbacks, and here's the general gist of it: What is the general time frame of them? To answer, there is approximately five months between the time that Reaper joins the squad to the July 1st mission to DC. Tank's birthday is February 7th. Reaper's is July 7th. The first flashback takes place just a few days after Reaper joins the squad. The second flashback is about a month after that, the third is about eight weeks after he joins, and this one takes place about nine weeks after the day Reaper joins the squad. I'll try to make more of an effort to build a structured timeline within the story from now on._

_This flashback was my favorite to write. I didn't really have a set idea when I began. But it got written, and turned out like this. I had quite the laugh with my best friend over Tank's parting line to Sarge; my best friend actually suggested that I add in the tampon remark. That made me crack up. But then again, I seem to have a very strange sense of humor. I figured, though, that Reaper would be somewhat used to moody girls on their periods, considering that he has a twin sister._

_Hope you found it as hilarious as I did. And thanks for your patience! I hope that I can get the next one up **on time**, next time._

_Next chapter should be posted 10-19-09._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	16. 2041 AD St Louis Missouri 2030 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum**_

_**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

_"History is much like an endless waltz. The three beats of war, peace, and revolution continue on forever."__  
__--Gundam Wing, Endless Waltz_

_**Chapter 15.**_

**-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

_**2041 A.D. - Halley Household, St. Louis County, Missouri - 2030 hours**_

"Okay," Tank said. She, Goat, Reaper, and Pug were gathered in her old room, where she and Reaper would be sleeping. Goat and Pug were going to be sleeping in the finished basement, part of which had been converted into a guest room.

"Some things I should warn you of before we get comfortable," Tank began. "The first is that, while mom and dad aren't exactly old-fashioned, we can't have 'company' in the house. This means that if you want to find a girl for a night, you'll have to take her somewhere else."

She sat down on the bottom bunk of her old bunk bed, and gratefully stretched her left leg out in front of her.

"Also, if you're going to drink, then either don't get drunk, or don't leave the house until you're sober again," she said. "People 'round here drive like lunatics. Don't smoke in the house if you're going to do so, and lastly, don't use too foul of language."

"Yes, ma'am," the men chorused. Tank smiled at them.

"Lastly, make sure to have fun while you're here, and help out around the house when you can," she continued. "If mom thinks she's got company over and that the house is a wreck, then she turns into the biggest basket-case I've ever seen, and I've seen a _lot_ of basket-cases."

"Anything else we should know?" asked Goat.

Tank paused thoughtfully, and then nodded. The men exchanged looks, to which Tank smirked slyly.

"Yeah," she said. "We're on vacation. The main thing you should do is relax and have fun. That's it."

"Cool," said Pug, flopping on the bed next to Tank. She grinned over at him.

"You might not want to do that," she said. "We're going to go see some fireworks in a little bit, as soon as it gets dark."

Pug's eyes grew wide. "I love fireworks!" he exclaimed.

Tank laughed. "You love _everything,_ Pug," she teased.

"I love America," Pug stated pointedly, and then paused. "Well, most of it, anyway."

Tank just laughed. Then she heard her father's voice, and a second later, Tori came bounding into the room, and nearly crashed into Goat, who caught the blond woman when she almost toppled over in surprise.

"Come on!" Tori exclaimed when she had recovered from her brief shock. "We're going to go see the fireworks!"

Tank laughed.

"Sure thing," she said, grabbing her crutches. She got to her feet with some effort, and hobbled out after Tori, followed by Goat and Pug, and lastly Reaper, who was still getting used to maneuvering his wheelchair.

They made their way out to the great room, where the rest of the family was waiting. Keith smirked at his daughter when he saw her wait for Reaper to emerge from the hallway. Tank didn't notice the look, since she was grinning at Tori, who was standing with her husband near the front door.

"So, when am I gonna get a little cousin to spoil?" Tank teased the couple quietly. Tori and Mitchell laughed, exchanging a look that Tank didn't miss.

Tank's eyebrows shot up, but she said nothing. She would ask Tori later.

"Okay, everybody, here's the plan," Marie announced. "We're taking three cars out to the church down the street. Does everybody have chairs?"

"Yeah!" called Tori.

"Gotcha covered," said Tank, grinning at Reaper. He rolled his eyes in response.

"Blankets?"

"Got 'em," replied Amanda.

"Bug spray?"

"Ew," whined Tank, wrinkling her nose, but she held up a bottle of the stuff nevertheless.

"Okay, good." Marie walked to the front door, and Tank followed.

"Last one out's a gimp!" she called. Her brandy-brown eyes twinkled with mirth, and she looked back over her shoulder at Reaper. "Come on, Reaps, you don't wanna get last place, do you?"

Reaper smirked.

"Hell, no!" he retorted. He followed at Tank's heels. He levered himself out of his wheelchair with a faint wince, but his eyes shone with his victory when he was able to stand on his own.

Tank shot him a triumphant look, and then jumped slightly when Bear, the family's Alaskan Malamute, started baying behind her.

"Bear!" she exclaimed. Tank turned and patted the huge, panting dog on the head. "I don't think you wanna come with us, boy. It's too hot."

Bear just stared up at her with big, warm, liquid brown eyes.

Reaper used the distraction to step out the door, pulling his wheelchair along with him. Tank squawked with some surprise when she saw that he had beaten her out the door.

"You cheater!" she exclaimed, shaking her fist at him. The rest of her family laughed and smiled, while Reaper just chuckled faintly. Pug snickered, and Goat's lips twitched.

"Last one out's a gimp, you said," he said, gasping slightly when his broken ribs twinged painfully. Tank hobbled carefully out the door, and scowled at Reaper as he lowered his wheelchair down the step.

"I thought you couldn't move without your ribs hurting?" she demanded, her voice incredulous.

"I wasn't lying," he returned. His voice rasped slightly. "But I do _not_ want to be totally dependant on others, if I can help it."

Tank sighed, but didn't say anything else, and cautiously lowered herself to the sidewalk. Reaper used the wall of the house as a support as he stepped down, also, before he slowly sat in his chair again with a faint wince.

Tank didn't miss this. "Are your ribs hurting you too much?"

Her forehead was furrowed with concern. Reaper cleared his throat so that his voice didn't rasp as much.

"Not enough to miss this," he replied.

"How about your head?"

He sighed, and his hazel eyes turned up to stare at her in a deadpan almost-glare.

"Would you stop worrying about me and take care of yourself, already?" he challenged. Tank scowled at him.

"Just 'cause I'm on leave doesn't mean I'm not the doc," she told him, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "I know how to hurt you but not damage you. You'd better behave."

Their glaring match persisted for a few seconds. Then Goat cleared his throat, and Tank and Reaper looked up to the porch to see the whole family gathered there.

"Are we interrupting a lovers' spat, here?" teased Tori. Tank spluttered for a second. Her face flared red.

Reaper just nonchalantly looked away and turned his wheelchair so that he could head toward the driveway.

Seven minutes later, everybody was loaded up and ready to go. Tank and the other Marines were in their rental van. Accompanying them were Tori, Mitchell, and Amanda, all crammed in the far back seat. Tank was acting as co-pilot again, but Pug was driving.

Tank directed Pug easily, keeping up a running banter between the van's occupants. Goat and Reaper were silent, for the most part, but that was to be expected.

They arrived at location about five minutes later, only to see that the other two cars had beaten them to the punch. Tank just grinned ruefully when she saw that they'd already begun to set up blankets and chairs, and to put on bug spray. As she and the others unloaded from the van, she waited patiently for Reaper.

He shot her a questioning glance when she didn't immediately join her cousin and best friend.

Tank shrugged. "Us gimps hafta stick together, right?" she said with a grin.

Reaper shook his head, rolled his eyes, and began to wheel himself over to the grassy hill that the parking lot was built on top of. Tank followed.

They came to a stop near Tori, Mitchell, and Amanda, and Tank briefly left Reaper behind in order to talk to her best friends and cousin-in-law.

"Hey, Amanda," Tank called. Amanda looked over at her. "I think my mom is beckoning for you."

Amanda followed Tank's line of sight and saw that Marie was waving her over. Amanda looked back at Tank, and smiled.

"Be right back," the taller woman said. Then she trotted off towards Tank's mother. Once Amanda was out of earshot, Tank turned an inquisitive gaze onto her cousin.

"So, what was that look about earlier?" Tank inquired. Tori laughed.

"What look?" she returned.

"The one you two exchanged when I asked if I was going to ever have a little cousin to spoil," Tank stated patiently. "And don't bother saying that you didn't, 'cause I was observant before, and I've just gotten even more observant since I joined the Corps."

Tori and Mitchell exchanged another glance, and then Tori sighed.

"Okay, okay," she said, and then took a deep breath. "I'm pregnant."

Tank's face split in a broad grin. "Congratulations!" she said. "Don't worry, I won't corrupt the baby... _too_ much."

Tori laughed. "I should hope not."

Tank mimed a person being stabbed in the heart. "You wound me with your words, dear cousin!"

"Yeah, well, I'm sure you'll live," Tori stated dryly. Tank grinned at the couple, and then thoughtfully raised her hand.

"One question," she said. Tori's eyebrows shot up, and Mitchell laughed.

"Shoot," Tori told her.

"Can I teach them how to throw knives?" Tank begged, her eyes growing big. Tori blinked.

"Maybe not until it's older," she hedged. Tank scoffed.

"Well, _duh_," she drawled. "What? Did you really expect me to teach a _child_ how to throw knives?" She shook her head. "Nah, I'm talking about when it gets to be around fourteen or so."

"Maybe."

"Yeah, I suppose it does depend on whether or not he or she wants to learn," Tank said, "and if I'm still alive by then."

Tori glared at her cousin. "You'd better be," she threatened with a growl, "or else I'll drag you back from hell by your thumbs and-"

"-flay me alive before killing me again, I know," Tank finished flippantly.

"Good," Tori stated. "At least we understand each other."

Tank smiled, and hobbled back to Reaper without another word.

He looked up at her inquisitively when she neared him, and Tank shrugged.

"It's between me and them," she supplied. Reaper nodded.

Tank accompanied him over to where Marie was waving for them, Tank hobbling and Reaper wheeling. They were then directed over to a blanket on the ground. Tank sat down gratefully when she arrived, keeping her left leg carefully immobile. Reaper just put on the brakes next to the spot.

Tank lifted her eyebrows in some amusement. "That thing has parking brakes?"

Reaper looked down at her and opened his mouth to reply. However, he was cut off as a small-looking projectile suddenly streaked up into the sky. It exploded a second later in a shower of red, white, and blue sparks. Tank heard Reaper's small intake of breath, saw his eyes go wide.

She silently reached up and slipped her hand into his.

Reaper watched the fireworks, transfixed, and eventually Tank turned her gaze upwards, too, to view the spectacle.

Tank's hand never left Reaper's.

**-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

_**2041 A.D. - Halley Household, St. Louis County, Missouri - 0436 hours**_

_An explosion, a burst of skin-searing heat, and she was sent flying. She felt dozens of sharp pains explode all over her body. Her eyes saw him be blasted back to land, bleeding, unmoving, not breathing, against the wall-_

Tank awoke with a gasp, her eyes wide and unseeing as she shot into a sitting position. It was a moment before she remembered how to breathe.

Inhaling shakily, still not entirely aware of herself or her surroundings, Tank's hand came down to clutch her tank top over her heart. It felt as though that vital organ was trying to leap out of her chest. Tank didn't feel pain in her leg as she scrambled for the ladder at the foot of her bed and carefully climbed down. She made sure not to jostle her bad limb terribly much, keeping all her weight on her good leg as she lowered herself from one rung to the next.

When Tank's feet finally settled on the floor, she looked around her room, finally gaining a faint recollection of where she was.

She didn't need a drink, and she was already awake. She was sweating, even though she felt cold.

Cold.

Why did she feel cold? The room was warm with the July air; the open window assured that. It wasn't too hot, but it wasn't cold, either. So why did she feel cold? The answer hit her with a jolt as she realized that there were tears running down her cheeks.

Tank was afraid.

The dream had been so real, so vivid. She'd been able to feel the flames licking her skin, the shrapnel from the podium and bomb as it had pierced her body. Tank had tasted her own blood in her mouth, had heard her anguished scream as though she had actually uttered it. She had seen him-

That was it. That was why her heart was pounding, why she was sobbing and shaking silently in the darkness of her bedroom at- she glanced at her digital alarm clock- four thirty-eight in the morning. She was crying because of the injuries that the man had suffered in her nightmare.

She was crying because she knew; she _knew_ who the man in her dream was.

Feeling a need to reassure herself of his continued life, Tank rounded the foot of the bunk bed, coming to sit on the edge of the bottom bunk. It was folded down into a double-bed, the futon recently fluffed. Its occupant had kicked off most of the blankets in the heat of the night, leaving him twisted up in the cotton sheets. In the yellow light of the street lamp, Tank could see his bandaged chest, the dip and rise of his hip before it disappeared underneath his black gym shorts.

Reaper was oblivious to her scrutiny, his expression more peaceful than Tank had ever seen it.

Tank felt a sob try to escape her throat, but she pushed it back, forced it down, and tried to stop her shaking. In the light of the street lamp that flooded into the room from her open window, Reaper seemed almost ghostly, unreal. Like he would disappear at the slightest provocation.

Tank muted the hitch in her breath by biting down on the side of her hand.

However, the slight hiss that escaped her mouth around her makeshift gag woke Reaper nonetheless, and he jerked slightly, glancing around blearily before his disoriented hazel gaze landed on his squadmate.

Tank absently wondered what she must look like right now, to attract his stare like she had. Probably disheveled, with her hair tangled and matted from sleep and sweat and salt water, with tear streaks down her cheeks, which were probably flushed from her distress. She guessed, in the back of her mind, that her eyes must have been bright and shining and red-rimmed from her tears.

Reaper saw all of this.

Tank watched as he scrutinized her in silence for a moment, and then she gasped faintly when he suddenly moved over and pulled the sheets back. His hazel eyes were inviting. Tank took a half a second to register this, and then her breath hitched again.

She took her hand away from her mouth and crawled silently to lay down next to him, facing him. Reaper didn't say anything, but covered her to her waist with the plain white sheets. Then he turned on his side towards her, and moved a few inches closer.

Tank closed her eyes as Reaper laid his hand comfortingly upon her arm, and rested her head down on the pillow. She couldn't hold back the tears when she felt his touch, knowing in her slightly disoriented state that he was real, that he wouldn't disappear.

Reaper just drew her a little closer, leaning his forehead against hers. His arm was warm when he looped it behind her shoulders, but Tank was grateful for his heat.

It banished the coldness in her body.

Tank cried silently for a little while as the images from her dream ran circles through her head, but gradually she calmed as Reaper ran his hand up and down her spine. He didn't speak a word, but his mere presence was enough to eventually banish all thoughts of her nightmare from her mind.

By the time that Tank drifted back into sleep, the sun had begun to crest the horizon.

Reaper didn't move, but kept rubbing her back even as he, himself, drifted back into oblivion.

**-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

_**Disclaimer: **Don't own it. If I did, then there would be a Doom 2 movie because the first one would've been better. *nods, then winces when somebody sends an elbow into her gut* Oof!_

_Thank God that my internet is working right. That's all I can say._

_Oh, and **HAPPY ANNIVERSARY TO MY MOM AND DAD. **They're awesome parents, and today is their 24th anniversary. Dad sent mom 12 red roses. Apparently, she had a "teary moment... or two". I was at school when they were delivered, and dad texted me telling me what was happening. I told him where I was, and asked if I should tell mom to get some clothes on (she was in her pajamas- flannel pants and a tank top), and he laughed and said no. Apparently, mom answered the door in her pajamas, and dad and I got a good laugh out of it. Hee hee._

_This last scene was one of my early favorites (later replaced with the flashback from the last chapter) because it showed that Tank isn't quite as disaffected with life as she acts, and shows another side to her that not many people see. Also, she hasn't really seemed to grieve for Hound and Indian, yet, but that's because she doesn't allow herself to break down in front of the men. She feels safe enough with Reaper that she allows herself to show emotions that she wouldn't normally display._

_Hope that makes sense. It just seems a little garbled to me..._

_Ahem._

_Big thank you to the two people who reviewed the last chapter: **JayDee** and **CaffeineKid**. You guys are awesome! And don't worry, I won't abandon this fic. I've already got most of it written. The only reason I can think of that I won't be able to update is if my computer either crashes or if my internet gets fucked up. ...Which, unfortunately, seems to be happening a lot, lately. Shit._

_Next chapter should be posted 10-26-09._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	17. 2041 AD St Louis Missouri 0630 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

_"Lord, please put your arm around my shoulder, and your hand over my mouth."  
--Anonymous_

_**Chapter 16.**_

_-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_**2041 A.D. - ?????? - ???? hours**_

_The soft sound of humming filled the kitchen, along with the clink of dishes and cutlery and the splashing of water._

"_You're off key, you know," said a voice from the doorway. Amanda, standing at the sink, turned to face John with a raised eyebrow._

"_Do I look like I care?" she deadpanned. Then she went back to washing the dishes, humming off-tune again and pointedly ignoring the fine figure of a man that walked into the room and sat down at the table behind her._

"_So, is there a reason why you're here?" she asked. "Or are you here to annoy me, again?"_

_There was a chuckle._

"_Sure I am," he returned amiably. Amanda turned to glance at him over her shoulder. It had been a week since she had mortified Sarge with her tampon comment, for which he had assigned her double dish-duty through the coming Friday. John still hadn't let her live it down. But she supposed that dish-duty was a fair price to pay for the look on Sarge's face. Amanda still found herself snickering about it on occasion._

"_Well, you could make yourself useful, instead," she muttered. "Start drying."_

_She reached into a drawer next to her right hip, pulled something out, and then threw it at John, who caught it deftly and stared at it. It was a dishtowel, light blue in color, and all but threadbare. There was a particularly suspicious-looking stain on the upper-right hand corner. Smirking slightly, John got up and joined Amanda at the counter, taking the freshly-rinsed plate that she handed him._

"_So, dare I ask why we don't have a mechanical dishwasher?" he asked lightheartedly. Amanda cast him a wry, sidelong glance before she shrugged._

"_I asked Sarge that, once," she admitted. "He just looked at me, grunted, and then walked away."_

"_...Caveman, much?" he quipped. Amanda chuckled._

"_Yeah, well, sometimes he seems like one," she muttered._

_Someone cleared their throat behind the two of them, and they froze, recognizing the sound. Amanda and John slowly turned to face Sarge, who was standing there with his arms crossed, tapping his forefinger against his massive bicep._

_Amanda laughed nervously. "Hey, Sarge."_

_He lifted an incredulous eyebrow, taking one measured step towards them, and then another._

"_A caveman, am I?" he asked quietly. Amanda gulped, slowly backing up until she was pressed against the counter._

_Sarge glared at her. "Care to say it to my face?"_

_She swallowed. Then a cheeky grin overtook her features._

"_Okay," she said lightly. "Your face is a caveman."_

_Sarge blinked. Once. Twice._

"_What the hell?" he asked. John snickered in the background. Sarge silenced him with a glower, and then turned back to Amanda._

"_Run that by me again, Marine," Sarge growled, his voice promising pain. Amanda knew when she was beat._

"_I didn't say anything, Sarge," she murmured, ducking her head. Sarge stared at her with narrowed eyes for a long moment. Then he took a step backward. Amanda breathed again._

"_Both of you have dish duty for the rest of the week for mouthing off," Sarge announced to them. "And I want everything spotless. Understood?"_

_Amanda could feel the heat of John's glare boring into the side of her head._

"_Sir, yes sir!" she barked, saluting with one soapy hand. John did the same, though his hand was full of dishtowel. Satisfied, Sarge left the room._

_As soon as he was gone, John turned to scowl at the woman beside him, who went back to doing the dishes with a grumble._

"_Nice going, neanderthal," he groused, angrily grabbing the bowl she handed him and drying it with more force than was necessary._

_She turned an irritated glare on him. "You know I'm right."_

"_That doesn't mean you have to voice it!" He leaned in close for emphasis. "Especially when you're in a public place where anyone could hear you!"_

_She sniffed. "Oh, get off it. Sarge's just mad 'cause he knows it's true, too."_

"_That's another week for you, Lance Corporal Halley," came Sarge's voice from the hallway. Amanda swore under her breath and checked to make sure the coast was clear before throwing a rude gesture in the direction of the doorway._

"_You wanna add another week on?" Sarge called again. Grumbling a long list of expletives, Amanda went back to washing the dishes while John just rolled his eyes next to her._

"_I didn't think so."_

_Final score: Amanda, zero. Sarge..._

_Sarge's score had long ago skipped off of Earth and rocketed off into the wild blue yonder with a cheerful grin on its face while singing "Hey, Nonny-Nonny"._

_Damn Shakespeare._

_-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_**2041 A.D. - Halley Household, St. Louis County, Missouri - 0630 hours**_

The first thing that Tank noticed as she awoke was that she was warm, and more comfortable than she had felt in a long, _long_ time.

The second thing that she noticed was that something was resting across her shoulders.

A faint memory of the events of a few hours earlier flitted through her mind. Sighing contentedly, Tank curled a little further into Reaper's shoulder, feeling the soft puff of his breath against her forehead. His grip on her tightened faintly. Tank surmised that he must still be asleep, himself. Otherwise, his heart rate would have doubtlessly been faster than the slow beat that it currently was.

Tank was unsure of how long she lay there, drifting between sleep and wakefulness, but eventually she became aware of the quiet click of a door latch coming undone, and the faintest intake of breath. She sighed, and decided that she was too warm and comfortable to bother with it.

That was, of course, until she suddenly felt a weight land upon her legs, and then the cautious placement of a tiny foot upon the sheet where it was suspended between her legs and Reaper's. Tank opened her eyes, finally, and lifted her head enough to glance down.

A black cat was padding his way up towards their heads, his steps careful and his nose twitching.

Tank smiled, and raised her hand. The cat began to purr as he went to her hand and bumped his head into her palm. Tank watched as he rubbed his whiskers against her skin, asking to be petted.

She was about to oblige when Reaper suddenly grunted, his body jerking slightly. Tank glanced up at him to see that his features were contorting in a prelude to awakening. She looked back down at the cat to see that he had flopped down between their bodies, and that most of his slight weight was resting against Reaper's stomach.

Tank winced, suddenly realizing what had awakened her teammate, and sighed before finally rousing herself enough to scoop the black animal to her and cradle him against her chest. The cat squirmed, giving a faint mewl of protest, and then relaxed when Tank placed a restraining hand on his head.

"Nice going, Binx," she whispered to him. "You woke Reaper up."

"I'll say." Reaper's deep baritone voice was rough and husky from disuse, and his words were slurred slightly from his disorientation. Tank looked up at him to see him blinking down at her.

"Sorry," she apologized, and then scratched Binx behind the ears. He purred loudly. His vibrating chest against her sternum made Tank giggle.

"He's vibrating," she murmured, giggling again. Reaper hummed blandly.

"He doesn't know how much he weighs," he groused. Tank looked up into his eyes, her own brandy-brown gaze apologetic.

"Did he hurt you?" she asked.

Reaper grunted again, and rolled onto his back to stare at the underside of the bunk above them. "Not much, but enough to wake me from a sound sleep."

Tank winced sympathetically. "Sorry."

Reaper grunted again, but it was affirming, this time. Tank knew that he wasn't angry.

"How'd you sleep?" she asked after a moment. He shrugged minutely.

"Well enough," he replied. Reaper's hazel gaze drifted over to land on her. "What happened, anyway?"

Tank couldn't meet his stare. "Nightmare," she replied simply.

Reaper raised an eyebrow. "I've never seen you so worked up about a simple nightmare," he said. "Whatever it was about must've been something exceptional."

Tank sighed, knowing that someone was standing outside the bedroom door. She could hear them breathing.

"It was about the D.C. mission, okay?" she supplied, her voice an exasperated release of breath. "We got shot up again."

"Too realistic for you?" Reaper's voice wasn't accusing or patronizing, simply gentle. Tank took a deep breath, and then released it slowly, absently running her hand down Binx's spine.

"Yeah," she whispered. "And not entirely true to facts, either."

"How so?" Tank looked up to see that he had turned to look directly at her. His face was only inches away from her own; she could feel his breath as it floated across her lips, could see every little rise and dip in his otherwise unreadable expression. Tank took another deep inhalation. His scent clung to the bedclothes and to her like a second skin.

"You died," she whispered, "and I... I almost did."

"Like what happened to Hound and Indian." It was a statement, not a question. Tank felt a lump grow in her throat at the thought of her two friends, who had given their lives for a vain cause.

Tank's breath hitched, and she clenched her eyes shut. Her grip on Binx tightened until he yowled and squirmed out of her arms, tail bristling.

A low moan built in her throat.

"I can't believe they're gone," she choked out. She curled up a bit into a ball, the realization that Indian and Hound were gone, really _gone_, hitting her at last. It knotted her stomach up like a punch to the gut. She found that she couldn't breathe.

A sob wrenched its way out of her chest.

Reaper just turned to her and pulled her to him, one arm encircling her back as he tucked her head under his chin. He didn't speak as Tank buried her forehead in the crook of his neck and dampened his skin with her tears.

"They were the ones who first welcomed me to RRTS," she gasped out, her voice distorted from the lump in her throat. He ran his hand up and down her back once.

"They were good men," he said quietly. "They died bravely."

"They died for nothing!" Tank exclaimed. Her eyes were clenched closed tightly, and her breath hitched enough that she coughed. "Their lives were wasted, John! We had the Senators out, the terrorists were dead! Indian and Hound should have lived!"

Reaper didn't speak, but ran his hand through Tank's tangled, dark brown hair in a soothing motion.

"What's the point?" Tank suddenly asked, voice hoarse and strangled. "What's the point of them dying? We had already completed the mission, why'd they have to die?"

She didn't pay any attention to how lost and childlike she sounded.

"I don't know," Reaper whispered, running his hand through her hair again. "But what I do know is that they died doing what they loved to do. That's the best death a man can have, Amanda, and if you question why they died, you'll go crazy, 'cause you'll never know for sure."

Tank gave a shaky sigh, and tilted her head upward a little so that her lips pressed against his collarbone.

"I know," she mumbled. "It doesn't make it any easier to accept, though."

"I know," Reaper replied. His hand smoothed over her hair again. "I know."

Tank released a trembling breath.

"I know you do," she whispered.

Reaper didn't reply, save to run his hand down her head, neck, and back again.

They laid there in silence for a while, Tank brooding silently and Reaper rubbing her shoulders gently. It was around 0650 hours before Tank finally took a deep breath and pulled away enough to look up into Reaper's hazel eyes.

"Thanks, Reaper," she said. Reaper nodded, his hand withdrawing from her back long enough to tuck a stray strand of brown hair behind her ear. Tank smiled at him.

There was a pregnant pause, each of them staring into the other's eyes for a few minutes. Then Tank reluctantly looked over at the clock before groaning.

"Ugh, is it that late already?" she asked quietly. Reaper followed her gaze.

"I guess so," he said. Tank levered herself up with her forearms, the sheet falling away from her, and gingerly swung her legs over the side of the bed.

"Nice pants," Reaper deadpanned behind her. Tank blinked, and looked down at her pajama pants. They were blue, and covered with cutesy green frogs. She'd had them since she was about seventeen years old. Tank looked back over her shoulder at where he was laying there, propped up on one elbow, staring at her.

"Glad you like them, I'll give you a pair for Christmas," she retorted dryly, arching one eyebrow as she turned away again. "Though I'm not sure they'll match your shoes, _darling_."

She could _feel_ Reaper's glare burning a hole in her back.

"What're you implying?" he growled. Tank grinned at him over her shoulder.

"Oh, come _on_," she teased. "I'm just pulling your leg. Now get a shirt on and let's go get something to eat. There's so much to do today!"

As she got up to fish some clothes out of her chest of drawers, Reaper got up, as well.

"Like what?" he asked, sitting on the side of the bed. Tank glanced over at him, pulling out a spaghetti-strap tank top and a pair of low-ride blue jean capris.

"I'm taking you guys up to the park, for one thing," she said. "Since it's Friday and the day after a holiday, Dad's got the day off, so he's going up with us and bringing Sadie."

"Then what?" asked Reaper. Tank turned, limped to her bedroom door, and shut it before she went back over to her dresser. She tossed Reaper his duffel bag, and then turned away so that he could dress. Her eyes caught the light dimming as he pulled the curtains closed.

"Honestly?" Tank countered. "I really don't know. You guys are going to decide what to do next."

She glanced over her shoulder at him, and then blushed and turned back forward when she saw that he was pulling on his pants... without underwear. Tank tried to fight down the redness in her cheeks as she pulled her pajama pants off, changed her underwear, and slipped into her jeans. As she lifted her sleeveless pajama top over her head, she glanced in the mirror and saw Reaper's eyes on her back, and she paused, studying his gaze in the reflective surface.

He didn't look away when she finally removed the cloth from her head and let it join the pool at her feet to leave her, bare-chested, standing in front of her floor-length closet mirror.

Tank swallowed at the intensity of his gaze. Really, what was _wrong_ with him? Could he not let her dress with the same amount of privacy that she had allowed him? Then she caught his gaze flicking downward, its sharpness focusing further, and suddenly something hot flared in her belly.

Tank swallowed again.

Then she took a deep breath, grabbed her tank top, and pulled it over her head, never once taking her eyes off of his reflection.

He was wearing a pair of loose cargo pants, not much different in their cut from the fatigues that infantrymen in the army wore. They hung low on his hips. His chest was still bare but for his bandages, though a dark t-shirt was waiting for him, laying on the side of the bed. She felt something inside her smolder.

Tank turned to him, tucking a wayward strand of chocolate-brown hair behind her ear as she went.

"Do you like what you see?" she asked him quietly. She absently trailed a hand down her face, down her neck, across her collarbone, between the valley of her breasts, and down over the strip of bared abdomen that her shirt didn't cover before letting her fingertips come to land on her relaxed left thigh. Reaper's burning gaze followed her hand before it landed on her face again.

"You don't know what you're doing," he said, his voice a low, husky growl. Where other girls might have grinned, Tank just frowned slightly as a pang shot through her heart.

"And you don't know what you're doing," she returned. Her voice was quiet and mild, and held no real conviction in it.

"Really, Reaper, I'm flattered that you would think such of me," she said softly, "but you know as well as I do that there can't be anything between us. Not yet."

The last two words were said in the barest of whispers.

Neither one neglected to note the implications.

_-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_**Disclaimer:**I only own Tank and the OCs. (Hey, doesn't that sound like a band name? Hmm...) Don't own Doom, and I don't own Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing, or the "Hey, Nonny-Nonny" song from it._

_Okay, that part at the end was kind of awkward to write. Tank had a bit of an out-of-character moment there, but in her defense, she's the kind of girl who's trained to push past any nervousness she might encounter, as well as the fact that she's probably not the most modest of girls by this time. She's given to moments where she just doesn't care, anymore, or she just says "screw it" and does something anyway._

_That said, I apologize if things between Tank and Reaper seem rushed. But I'm trying to pick up the pace a bit. After the next chapter or so, I'll be making larger and larger time-skips, since I want to get to the main meat of the story soon. If I add anything in, it'll probably be a last-minute thing that I come up with and not part of the original story. Tank and Reaper's relationship will be escalating soon, though it will be a while before anything really serious happens between them._

_By the way, I just happen to love Shakespeare. Much Ado About Nothing is one of my all-time favorite plays. Shakespeare was cursed in this chapter for the sake of humor, but he really isn't that bad._

_A big thank you to everybody who reviewed the last chapter: **JayDee** and **CaffeineKid**. You guys rock!_

_Sorry for the late update. My schedule's been out-of-whack between days off from college and with preparing for math tests and stuff. I didn't even realize that today was Wednesday and that I hadn't updated until I looked at my calendar. Ick. ...Please don't kill me._

_Next chapter should be posted 11-4-09._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	18. 2041 AD St Louis Missouri 1830 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

_"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away."  
--Anonymous_

_**Chapter 17.**_

_-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_**2041 A.D. - County Park, St. Louis County, Missouri - 1830 hours**_

Reaper wheeled himself along the paved path with expert precision. Tank watched him with wary eyes. She knew how steep this path got. Next to her, Pug chattered amiably with Amanda, who had decided to accompany them to the park. On Tank's other side, Goat was a comforting anchor, taciturn as he usually was. It was around six-thirty in the evening; Tank could feel her palms sweating where they gripped the handles of her crutches.

It was about a half-hour since they'd begun their walk when Tank paused in her stride to adjust her grip on her crutches, leaning heavily on them as she wiped her hands furiously on her jeans.

"Everything alright?" Tank blinked and looked up; she hadn't even noticed Goat stopping alongside her.

"Yeah," she replied. "My palms are sweating, though."

Goat nodded. Tank knew that he understood. Then she saw his eyes flick over to where Pug and Amanda were walking circles around Reaper in his wheelchair. Reaper was looking rather annoyed.

"You've been having nightmares?"

Tank blinked again, looking back up at Goat. "How'd you know?"

"I walked in on you this morning," he replied, voice quiet as always. Tank's left eyebrow shot up.

"So it was _you _who let Binx in," she surmised, a teasing glint in her eyes. Goat, to his credit, managed to look repentant.

"I didn't mean to," he muttered. Tank chuckled.

"Don't worry, he tends to sneak around a lot." She glanced over at Reaper, her gaze growing soft for a second. Goat's sharp eyes didn't miss this.

"I wish you both the best," he told her quietly. Tank started, her brandy-brown eyes widening and flying back up to Goat.

"We're not together!" she hissed to him. "It's not allowed!"

Goat stared at her levelly. "Love and marriage between Marines is not against the rules," he said. "No one will frown upon you for loving him, Amanda."

Tank stared at him, her emotions warring between hope, affection, and unease.

"But isn't there a rule against fraternization within the ranks?" she inquired. "Besides, what if one of us died?"

"Then one of you would die, and the other would move on," Goat replied. His expression was solemn, voice carefully noninflected. "There is no rule against married couples in the ranks."

"We haven't even started _dating_, yet, Eric!" Tank hissed. "Let alone even _thinking_ about marriage!"

Goat's stare was level and unyielding.

"Then don't fuck around before you do," he said. Tank groaned, glaring up at him even as her cheeks turned red.

"What kind of woman do you take me for?" she asked.

"A good one," Goat stated firmly. "I know you've got strong moral convictions, Tank, but even the most upstanding person can succumb to temptation."

Tank sighed. "Don't you think I know that?" she countered. "I've had active hormones since I was twelve, Goat. Don't you think I've ever felt the temptation to just go out and find someone to sleep with, just out of curiosity?"

He lifted one eyebrow, and Tank rolled her eyes.

"Don't answer that," she commanded. "My point is that if I had wanted to give myself to somebody before marriage, I would've done it a long time ago. I'm not about to lose my virginity before I'm married, no matter how long it is before that time comes."

Goat studied her for a second. Then he nodded.

"Hey, you slowpokes!" Tank and Goat turned to see Amanda waving at them. "Hurry it up, I'm getting hungry!"

Tank grinned at her best friend, and with one last look at Goat, began to hobble as fast as she could over to where the other three were waiting.

"Sorry, I had to dry my hands off," Tank called to them.

She didn't notice Goat's small, brief smile as he walked sedately after her.

They finished their walk about fifteen minutes later, and all piled into the van to head back home and get something to eat. Amanda and Pug chattered happily the whole way back to the Halley household, discussing various things ranging from politics to TV shows to birthdays.

"By the way, Amanda," Tank said when these last were mentioned. "I know I sent you a card, but I don't think I told you happy birthday, yet."

Amanda grinned. "Thanks," she said.

Tank smirked at her best friend.

"So, didja go out and have a drink?" she asked. Amanda nodded. "Did you use the gift certificate, yet?"

"Yeah, I got a copy of that new Star Wars book they have out," Amanda replied. "And I got a copy of Jane Austen's works."

"Another?"

"This one was leather-bound, and it was the complete collection."

"Ah, I see," Tank said, nodding in comprehension. "So, have you been drooling over Darcy again, yet?"

Amanda grinned cheekily. "Of course."

Tank chuckled, and faced forward again.

They arrived back at the house a minute later. Goat waited patiently while Tank and Reaper got out, then went to park as they made their way to the front door.

Tank saw Reaper wince when he lifted himself out of his wheelchair, and her brow furrowed slightly as she stepped up after him. She balanced herself on her right leg and lifted up his wheelchair, setting it down on the porch.

Reaper stared at her as though she had grown a third head.

"What?" Tank inquired. "Do I have something on my second head?"

Reaper blinked at her incredulously. "Second head?" he questioned blandly.

"You're staring at me like I just grew a third one," Tank stated with a raised eyebrow. "I thought I would try to make a joke out of it."

"You didn't have to grab my wheelchair," he muttered. Tank shrugged.

"I wanted to," she said simply.

"I told you I don't want to be dependent."

"Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine," Tank murmured dryly. "Quoting Sarge, of course. Can't you tell when somebody genuinely wants to help you?"

Reaper was silent, his hazel gaze boring into her. Tank met his gaze with an innocent smile.

"Come on, you two!" exclaimed Amanda as she came up the walk. "Take your lovers' spat to the other side of the porch so that the rest of us can get in!"

Tank sputtered, her cheeks flaring red, and she glared at her best friend.

"It _isn't_ a lovers' spat!" she exclaimed. Amanda grinned cheekily at the female Marine.

"You just keep telling yourself that," Amanda said, and dodged Tank's punch before it could hit her shoulder. The younger woman ducked into the doorway, opened it, and then went inside, laughing all the way.

"I'm gonna get you, Amanda!" Tank yelled after her.

"Let me eat, first!"

"No way! C'mere, I'll show _you_ a lovers' spat!!" Tank entered the house after her friend, her cheeks still red from her embarrassment.

She didn't notice the thoughtful look on Reaper's face.

_-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_**2041 A.D. - Halley Household, St. Louis County, Missouri - 2357 hours**_

The house was quiet, Tank observed. She was really the only one still up, save for Reaper, who was reading a book in silence where he was laying on the bottom bunk. Both of them were dressed and ready for bed. Tank was sitting at her desk, typing on her old computer, an ancient Dell XPS from the turn of the century that had been handed down to her from her father. She was sending an e-mail to Sarge, to find out how his day had been and to ask him to help her look into something.

When she was done writing the e-mail, Tank sent it with the click of a button. Then she turned her chair around to stare nonchalantly at Reaper.

He noticed her gaze after a second, but he only flipped a page in the book. It was then that Tank noticed what he was reading.

"Where'd you get that from?" she asked. He glanced at her.

"Your bookshelf," he replied. Tank glanced at her tall bookshelf where it stood in the corner of the room, brimming with well-read novels, manga, and various magazines.

"I didn't realize you liked fantasy novels," Tank told him. Reaper glanced at her again.

"Generally, no," he admitted. "But this looked interesting, and it's proven to be so, as far as I've read."

"Good, I'm sure that mister Salvatore will be _thrilled_ to know that his books are still well-liked," Tank intoned dryly. Then she sighed.

"I did like that one, though," she admitted. "I actually read the Ancient first, and then went back and read the Highwayman afterwards, and then the Dame after that. It really makes a lot more sense if you read them chronologically."

Reaper finally looked up from R. A. Salvatore's The Highwayman for more than a few seconds. "Generally speaking, yes, a book usually makes more sense if you read its prequel first."

"No shit, Sherlock," Tank muttered. Silence fell between them for several moments, neither of them breaking the other's gaze. It was a while before Tank finally looked back at her computer screen, her cheeks lightly flushed.

"Do you remember what day it is?" she asked.

"Saturday?" countered Reaper, not looking up from Tank's book.

"Nope," Tank said. Her fingers tapped over keys for a few seconds, and then she shut the monitor of her laptop and turned to face Reaper again. This time, she didn't look away.

"Today's Sunday," she corrected. Reaper's eyes paused in their repetitive back-and-forth motions.

"Really?" His voice was carefully level. Tank withdrew something from her desk drawer, gingerly got up from her chair, and took the one stride that brought her to the side of the bottom bunk.

"Yes, really," she said. "And you're twenty-one, now."

Reaper's gaze finally met hers. Tank smiled, and held out a can of beer to him; it was what she'd had hidden in her desk. Reaper took it, his gaze not leaving hers, and Tank popped the tab on her own, sitting on the edge of the bed. She watched as Reaper bookmarked his page and laid the paperback down before he, too, opened his beer.

"Cheers," Tank said, smiling.

"Cheers," Reaper returned. They tapped their cans together, and then Tank tipped her can to her lips, letting the amber liquid drain into her mouth. She winced slightly at the flavor, but swallowed nonetheless.

She grimaced over at Reaper, who was downing his without complaint. He raised an inquiring eyebrow at her.

"It's a taste to acquire," she rasped, coughing. The corners of Reaper's mouth twitched in a ghost of a smile. Then he sat up gingerly so that they could see eye-to-eye.

"I really don't think it's that bad," he told her. Tank made a face at him.

"That's 'cause you're a _guy_," she retorted. She shook her head and downed the rest of her beverage in one breath. Reaper chuckled at her, causing her to raise her eyebrows in inquiry.

"And here I thought you didn't like beer," he observed. Tank shrugged, and swallowed the last of it.

"I don't," she responded. "However, I've never been one to waste good alcohol."

This last was said with a small smirk before she got up again and set the empty can on her desk. Reaper shook his head and drained his can, handing it to Tank when she held out her hand for it. After it was set on the desk, as well, Tank came back over and sat on the edge of the bed again.

"You know, I was trying to figure out what to give you for your birthday," she said conversationally. Tank hoped she sounded nonchalant, though in reality her heart was pounding. She cocked her head to the side, studying Reaper's rather blank expression. She saw him swallow.

"You didn't have to give me anything," he murmured. Tank noticed that his voice sounded almost raspy. She scooted a little bit closer to him.

"Good, 'cause I couldn't think of anything that you might like," she said, "except for one thing."

"What's that?" he inquired as she leaned a little closer to him. Tank felt the pace of her heartbeat increase.

"You know, I've been wondering something lately," she told him, forcing her voice to not waver as she suddenly changed the subject. "When you said you were waiting for somebody, who were you referring to?"

"What do you mean?"

"When Portman asked you if you were still a virgin, you told him that you were waiting for somebody," Tank replied patiently. She didn't move closer or farther away. "Who are you waiting for, John?"

Tank saw Reaper's Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed. "Do I have to answer, Amanda?"

"No," Tank replied. "'Cause I already know who it is you're waiting on."

"Yeah?" Oh, yeah, his voice was definitely rasping. "Who do you think?"

Tank hummed, and then leaned in to him, feeling her heart pounding in her chest. She took a breath to steady herself and maintain her nerve. Her eyes slipped halfway closed. Then she closed the space between them.

Tank's lips met Reaper's in a gentle, tender kiss that was chaste and passionate at the same time.

Tank felt Reaper freeze, and her back stiffened briefly, until he relaxed again and leaned in to return the kiss. She sighed, partly in relief and partly in pleasure, as his hand came up to cradle her chin.

They parted after a second, but Tank kept her eyes closed, breathing steadily and savoring his touch. Slowly, she let her eyes flutter open, and looked up into Reaper's hazel gaze.

Really, she had never been so close to him, so it was only at that moment that she was really able to see how much green was in his irises, as well as the thin ring of brown that radiated out from his pupils. Tank couldn't help the breathless sigh that escaped her mouth.

They held each other's gazes for an eternal moment before Reaper caressed Tank's cheek with the pad of his thumb.

"You guessed right," he murmured. Tank couldn't hold back her relieved grin.

"I'm glad I did," she quipped. Reaper growled, and kissed her again.

When they parted for air again a moment later, Tank reached out and turned off the light before she parted the curtains. Then, by the light of the street lamp, she and Reaper laid down on the bottom bunk, facing each other, and covered themselves with the sheet. A warm breeze from the open window teased Tank's chin-length bangs and Reaper's short hair.

"Happy birthday, John," Tank whispered to him, her hand snaking out to play with his hair. Reaper glanced up at her hand, and then met her gaze with a smile.

"Thanks," he said. "I liked your gift a lot, too."

Tank chuckled.

"You know, I always thought I'd be forty before I found anyone who would have me," Tank told him quietly.

"You know, I always knew that I'd have you before you turned twenty-five," Reaper returned playfully. Tank raised her eyebrows, peering at him through the dim light.

"Always?"

Reaper paused, and then shrugged. "Well, since I met you again."

Tank chuckled.

"I'm glad you did," she replied with a smile. They were silent for a few moments.

"So, does this mean that I have permission to date you?" Reaper ventured. Tank grinned, and met his gaze.

"Yes," she replied matter-of-factly. "It also means that you're going to get a lecture from my family."

Reaper's eyebrows shot up. "Lecture?" he asked. "What lecture?"

Tank shrugged. "The usual one about how if you break my heart they'll hunt you down," she said. "And about how if you get me knocked up then you'll have to marry me."

Reaper hummed.

"That doesn't sound so bad," he murmured, leaning in for another kiss. Tank laughed into his mouth.

"Which part?" she asked against his lips. Reaper sighed, and ran his hand down her cheek and neck before coming to a stop on her collarbone.

"Either," he replied. Tank pulled away, her eyebrows making a beeline for her hairline.

"Even the part about marriage?" she asked. Reaper shrugged thoughtfully.

"I suppose not," he said. Tank nudged him playfully in the stomach, causing him to wince.

"What if I'm not the marrying type?" she prompted. He gave her a pointed look.

"I never figured you to be the type to live with someone unless you were married to him or it was business-related," he deadpanned. Tank chuckled, and scooted closer to him so that she could lay her head on his shoulder.

"You always hit the nail right on the head, don't you?" It was more of a statement. Reaper just hummed and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. There was a comfortable pause.

"You know, Goat said something to me earlier today," Tank confessed.

"Really," Reaper returned. She hummed.

"He said that he wished us both the best," she told him. Reaper blinked.

"But we weren't even together," he stated, some confusion showing itself in his hazel eyes. Tank rolled her eyes.

"That's what _I_ said," she grumbled. "He just said that love and marriage among Marines isn't forbidden, and not to fuck around before getting married."

Reaper's stare was disbelieving, more so than Tank had ever seen it. "How'd he know?"

"He's always been perceptive," Tank sighed. "It's likely that he deduced how I felt about you weeks ago."

There was a pause.

"And how do you feel about me?" Reaper inquired. Tank blinked, and then swallowed.

"I-" She tried to say it, but the words got stuck in her chest, and she had to clear her throat before she could try again.

"I-" The words got stuck again, and Tank sighed in frustration, turning on her back and running a hand through her hair.

"Jeez, I never thought a few little words would be so hard to say," she mumbled. Reaper's hand on her shoulder turned her back to face him, and before Tank could react, he was kissing her again.

She sighed into his mouth, her hand coming up to cradle the back of his neck. He growled faintly.

Taking the cue, Tank parted her lips and slipped her tongue out to lick his bottom lip. She heard him gasp in surprise, but he opened his mouth in response, and his tongue met hers.

Tank moaned quietly when a bolt of fire shot down her spine to her lower abdomen. Then she gasped and jerked away, panting and breathless, when a pang shot through her wounded leg.

"Ow! Shit!" she gasped, grimacing. Her hand flew down to press against her thigh.

"Are you okay?" asked Reaper. Tank felt the pain ebb, and released a sigh of relief.

"I am now," she murmured. "It just started hurting all of a sudden."

"Is it bleeding?"

Tank winced, but didn't bother to turn away from him as she slipped a hand down her pajama pants to feel for the stitches in her thigh.

"No," she replied. Her voice was slightly uncertain, but she knew that her wound hadn't reopened.

Tank sighed, freeing her hand again, and gingerly stretched her leg out with a faint groan, pressing her palm against her thigh.

"It's just like a charlie horse," she gritted out, wincing as her muscles were stretched. A warm hand covered her own.

"Your hands are like ice," Reaper observed. Tank managed to chuckle.

"They almost always are," she said.

"No, they aren't," he stated. "Just when you're in pain or something."

Tank winced at the way he was able to so easily see through her, but she sighed with relief when he transferred his hot palm from her hand to the back of her thigh, where her stitches were concealed beneath her pants and her bandages.

"Your hands are warm," she murmured. She wordlessly allowed Reaper to move her leg slightly closer to himself, relishing in the pain-easing heat.

"They always are," he returned. Tank hummed. Then she made the mistake of looking up into his eyes.

Tank immediately found herself entranced by his gaze, the way the light shone on his hazel irises. She felt her breathing rate increase, felt her heart begin to pound, felt butterflies start fluttering around her stomach.

"John," she whispered. Reaper lifted his other hand to press a finger to her lips, effectively silencing her. A second later, his finger was replaced by his mouth.

The kiss left Tank gasping for air as an unfamiliar heat coursed through her body.

"What were you trying to say earlier?" Reaper asked her quietly. It took Tank a few minutes to formulate a breathless answer.

"I think I might love you."

Reaper just kissed her again. The pad of his thumb caressed Tank's thigh gently, and she groaned softly before she pulled away.

"We need to stop this," she murmured.

Reaper hummed, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against hers. Tank noticed dazedly that he didn't remove his hand. She just sighed, and gave him a soft kiss before she curled up and took his other hand in both of hers.

"I think I might love you, too," he whispered before she drifted off. A smile formed on Tank's face, and stayed there even after she had left the waking world behind.

That night, their sleep was peaceful and uninterrupted.

_-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own it, so you lawyers who are about to get on my case can just go shove it where the sun don't shine._

_So there we go. They're finally dating. I'm proud, now: I didn't get them together before chapter 15, like what would have happened had I followed the original plan. Scribe is proud of self. Yay!_

_Ahem._

_Things are going to get kind of awkward for a while, at least if you ask me. This is my first M-Rated fic, so it's a little odd for people to be reading my most "mature" work to date. So please don't kill me if something comes out and isn't like it would be in reality. I'm doing my best._

_A huge thank you to **JayDee** and **CaffeineKid** for reviewing the last chapter! You guys rock! And to **CaffeineKid**, I hope that this satisfies your hate for cliffhangers. Also, to **JayDee**, I hope this answers your hopes of Tank and Reaper. Believe me, I wrote this months ago- it was killing me just to work with the exposition up to now and not just jump into their relationship._

_Next chapter should be posted 11-9-09._

_**-P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	19. 2041 AD St Louis Missouri 1030 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_Here is my heart and I give it to you/ Take me with you across this land/ These are my dreams, so simple and few/ Dreams we hold in the palm of our hands.__"  
--Loreena McKennitt, 'Never-Ending Road (Amhr__á__n Duit)'_

_**Chapter 18.**_

* * *

_**2041 A.D. - Halley Household, St. Louis County, Missouri - 1030 hours**_

Tank stared down at the paper in front of her. Around her were arrayed various markers and pens. She had just spent the last hour or so making a birthday card.

Now it was time to write in it.

Picking up a ballpoint pen, Tank peered thoughtfully down at the interior of the card. What to say? She didn't know the recipient very well; she hadn't even seen her in over ten years. However, Tank had liked her then, and was dating the other woman's twin brother. It only made sense that she send her a birthday card.

Taking a resolved breath, Tank put the pen to the paper and began to write.

_Miss Samantha Grimm,_ she wrote, _Today is July 7th. I just wanted to wish you a very happy birthday._

She paused, wondering how John would react to that statement coming from a total stranger.

_Now, I realize that, if you're anything like your brother, you're wondering who I am and how I know your name, birthday, and age._

_My name is Amanda Halley. You might remember me from the brief time that we knew each other when we were ten, right after your parents' accident. You and John were staying at Pendleton. Yeah, I'm that girl._

Tank paused, considering. Then she nodded to herself and jotted down, _I don't know if you'd be interested, but I'd like to talk to you, just to catch up. I know it's been a while, so I understand if you really don't want anything to do with me. Either way, I hope to hear from you soon._

Another thoughtful moment was taken.

_Also, I don't know if you knew this or if John told you, but he recently joined the Rapid Response Tactical Squad, or RRTS for short. I think it was actually about five months ago or so. He and I are on the same squad, so that's how I knew when to send you this card. I had to ask Sarge to look up your address and stuff. I hope you like it, by the way._

Tank was unsure of what else to say. After all, what do you say to someone you don't know? Finally, she just scrawled a meager closing.

_But yeah. Happy birthday, Samantha!_

Then she signed it with _Sincerely, Lance Corporal Amanda Halley. RRTS Six Operative IDN 413-68-7592._

As an afterthought, she jotted down her PDA number and her e-mail address. Then she put the card in a similarly-sized envelope, sealed it, stamped it, and wrote down the address that Sarge had sent her via e-mail during the wee hours of the morning.

Her task complete, Tank grabbed her crutches and made her way out to the living room. Her eyes immediately fell upon Reaper's form where he was crashed on the couch, a hot water bottle pressed to his side. Tank winced sympathetically.

"Are your ribs hurting, then?" she asked him. He looked up at her, and Tank could see the acute pain that creased the corners of his eyes.

"Just a little." The words held the bite of sarcasm to them, and Tank knew that they were a gross understatement.

"Is there anything I can do?" she offered softly. Reaper shook his head.

"Nah, I already got a couple of painkillers," he said, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the back of the couch. "Just waitin' for 'em to kick in."

Tank smiled slightly at him, and headed over to the door. "I'll be right back. Take it easy, right?"

Reaper grunted.

It took Tank a total of two minutes to get up to the mailbox, send the letter, and get back inside. Reaper just gave her a strained smile in greeting.

Tank decided that she didn't like the way that the pain made his face look so haggard.

* * *

_**2041 A.D. - Halley Household, St. Louis County, Missouri - 1750 hours**_

Tank had to admit that she admired Reaper's patience at times.

Certainly, if she'd been subjected to so many lectures, she would've gone postal.

Reaper, however, endured her family's good-natured ribbing and half-assed threats with admirable tolerance. He had assured them repeatedly that he would never purposely harm Tank, or hurt her emotionally. They'd accepted his promises with joking reluctance, knowing that Tank could take care of herself.

When he'd asked her about it later, Tank had told Reaper that they only did it because they all remembered her as the scrawny kid who was mostly bark and not enough bite, and that she had once been too gentle to harm a fly.

Now it was July fourteenth, and Tank was riding to the local clinic with Reaper, her mother, and Goat. Tank was excited. Today was the day when she would get her stitches out.

She had checked them, herself.

"I can't _wait_ to be able to _move_, again," she all but gushed. Marie chuckled as they turned down the road that would take them to the clinic.

"I know, sweetie," she said. "Just be patient. You'll probably still have to take it easy even after you get them out."

Tank sighed heavily, but couldn't keep the grin off of her face. It only widened when Tank looked at Reaper and saw his own small smile.

The two of them were sitting in the pilot's seats, Reaper in his usual spot behind the driver, and Tank sitting on the passenger's side behind her mother. Marie pointed to a white and dark blue building off of the right side of the road.

"There it is," she said. Tank all but squirmed as Goat pulled into the parking lot, and then got out when he put the van in park. She waited for Reaper, Marie, and Goat to exit the vehicle, and then she led the way inside the clinic. Tank immediately headed over to the receptionist, who had just finished checking in another patient.

"Hello!" she exclaimed. The receptionist smiled at her.

"Good afternoon, ma'am," the other woman said. She eyed Tank's dog tags, which hung around the brunette's neck.

"You must be Lance Corporal Halley, then?" Tank nodded.

"Yep," she replied. "Gotta get some stitches out."

"Right," the auburn woman said. Her cerulean eyes landed on the chairs in the waiting area. "If you'll just wait over there and fill out this form, doctor Quinn will be right with you."

Tank smirked, took the clipboard, and mock-saluted. "Yes, ma'am."

The receptionist chuckled, and then Tank headed over to a chair near the window. She saw Reaper eye her with a raised brow her as she passed him, and just smirked in response.

He joined her five minutes after she had sat down, his own clipboard in hand. Marie and Goat took seats to either side of Tank, and sat conversing quietly while the other two Marines filled out their paperwork. It was a few minutes later that Tank suddenly sighed.

"Have I ever mentioned how much I hate, loathe, and utterly _despise_ paperwork?" she asked Reaper and Goat, glancing up at them.

Goat cracked a small grin, and Reaper chuckled.

"Can't say I blame you," the latter replied. Tank listened to her mother laugh, and went back to finishing the documents.

"Amanda Halley?" Tank looked up just as she finished jotting down the last bit of necessary information to see a nurse standing in the doorway that led to the examination rooms. Smiling at her companions, Tank got up and crossed the room to the nurse, who took her paperwork. Then she followed the woman back toward examination room number five.

The nurse closed the door behind them and instructed Tank to sit upon the table in the middle of the room. Tank did so, and the nurse began by taking Tank's stats, including height, weight, when she'd had her last period, recent vaccinations, and so on. Then she departed, and Tank was left alone with her thoughts to get changed into a paper gown.

The question about her period had brought up a thought that Tank had been pondering for some time, and she thought that she should seriously consider it, especially now that she and Reaper were dating.

Birth control.

Tank was serious when she told Goat that she would wait until marriage to have sex, but she had no desire to get pregnant on her honeymoon, whether it be with Reaper or, if things with him didn't work out, then someone else along the line. So it stood to reason that she should do some research into birth control.

Tank was still pondering these things when the doctor came into the room, and she grinned at the sight of the familiar face.

"Dr. Quinn," Tank greeted.

"Hello, Amanda," Dr. Quinn returned. She was a middle-aged woman, probably around fifty or so, with greying blond hair and eyes the color of the summer grass. A pair of specs rested on the bridge of her nose.

"How are you doing today?" Dr. Quinn inquired. Tank shrugged.

"Well enough," she responded amiably. "I'll be better when I get these stitches out."

Dr. Quinn chuckled.

"I can tell," she said. "Lie down on your stomach."

Tank did as she was told, stretching herself prone on the examination table. She heard Dr. Quinn get out the tools that she would need, and held still when the doctor began to take out the stitches.

It was a relatively short process, but it still took almost fifteen minutes to get all of the stitches out of Tank's hip and thigh. When it was finally over, Dr. Quinn told Tank to sit up again, and then looked at the younger woman with a firm, faintly disapproving gaze.

"Dare I ask what made these?" Dr. Quinn asked. Her tone left no room for evasion, and Tank shrugged.

"Did you watch the news on July first?" she countered. "About the Senate incident?"

Dr. Quinn's eyebrows shot up. "You were involved?"

"Yeah," Tank replied. "Didn't mom tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"I joined RRTS." Tank watched as Dr. Quinn sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

"That explains everything, then," she said. She put her hand on her hip and stared at Tank for a long moment.

"Well, do you want to continue with the routine checkup, or should I just let you go?"

Tank chuckled. "It might be nice not having to examine myself, for a change."

Dr. Quinn hummed, and had Tank lay down on her back so that she could probe Tank's abdomen for any abnormalities.

"So, what specialty are you, again?" the doctor asked conversationally. Tank jerked slightly as Dr. Quinn's hands pressed down into her stomach.

"That tickles!" she chuckled. "I'm the squad doc, actually. Joined the Navy, got specialized, and then rejoined the Marines. Got recruited into the RRTS a year later."

"I see," Dr. Quinn said. "That explains your comment."

Tank grinned. "Of course," she quipped. "I'm not about to let any of my squadmates examine me."

Dr. Quinn raised an eyebrow as she recorded something on her clipboard.

"Why not?" she asked. Tank sat up again. She didn't flinch when the cold disk of the stethoscope was pressed to her ribs, and then to her back.

"They're all _guys_," Tank stated flatly. "And most of them are perverts, anyway."

"Why not let the non-perverted ones examine you?" asked Dr. Quinn with a small smile.

Tank just blushed. "'Cause one of 'em's my CO, another is too religious to touch a woman even in examination, and the other is my boyfriend."

Dr. Quinn's eyebrows shot up again.

"Boyfriend?" she questioned. There was a pause. Tank knew what was coming.

"No, we're not sleeping together," she told the doctor. "Not in that sense, at least."

Dr. Quinn nodded. "Have you thought about birth control?"

"Yes, actually," Tank replied. "It's kind of hard _not_ to, especially when I think of where our relationship might eventually lead."

"Which is?"

Tank blushed. "Don't tell _anyone_," she commanded. "But I think that this might be the guy I finally settle down with."

"Marriage?"

Tank wouldn't meet the doctor's gaze. "Maybe."

Dr. Quinn was silent for a few seconds. Then she jotted down a few more notes on her clipboard and looked Tank in the eye.

"Come to my office," Dr. Quinn told Tank. "We'll discuss this there."

Tank nodded, her cheeks red, and Dr. Quinn left the room so that Tank could get dressed. Tank hurriedly pulled her clothes back on, checked that her khaki capris and green tank-top were straight, and slipped on her shoes. Then she chucked the paper gown into the trash can in the corner of the room and made her way out into the hallway. She walked deliberately down to the doctor's office.

Dr. Quinn was waiting for her when Tank got there, and the Marine immediately closed the door and took a seat in one of the two chairs situated in front of the desk.

"Okay," Dr. Quinn began. "Concerning your leg, you should take it easy for another two or three days, meaning no strenuous activities like running or jumping."

Tank nodded.

"And concerning the birth control," Dr. Quinn continued, ignoring the way Tank's cheeks reddened again. "You have several options."

She went on to name and describe several things, ranging from pills to implants to condoms. Most of the information Tank already knew from various commercials and from her high school health class. Not to mention that she'd heard other female Marines talk about it endlessly back at Pendleton.

By the time the discussion ended, Tank's face had gone through several shades of red, and was bordering on scarlet. Dr. Quinn noticed this and smiled.

"It's good to see you finally happy, Amanda," the doctor said. "I'm glad for you."

Tank smiled shakily. "Thanks, Dr. Quinn."

"Well, you just take care of yourself," Dr. Quinn said, standing up from her chair. "Your friend should be finished with his examination by now, if the report I got from Dr. Earlie is any indication."

Tank reddened further. "Actually, _he's_ my boyfriend."

Dr. Quinn nodded with a chuckle. "I see," she said.

Tank hurriedly stood, and shook Dr. Quinn's hand. "Thank you, Dr. Quinn," she said, and then added, "Medicine woman."

Her eyes twinkled in good-natured humor. Dr. Quinn laughed at the reference.

"Yes I am," she chuckled.

"Have a good day."

"You, too, Amanda. Stay safe."

"You, too," Tank said, and then left the office, fighting down her blush as she went. By the time she reached the checkout desk, Tank had fully composed herself, and signed herself out with a few jokes between her and the secretary.

Reaper, Goat, and Marie were waiting for her when she left the office. Tank noticed that Reaper's cheeks were slightly red, but made no comment. After all, doctors could be utterly embarrassing to talk to, at times. Tank's conversation with Dr. Quinn had just proved that beyond the shadow of a doubt.

"All done?" asked Marie. Tank nodded.

"All done," she replied. They left the clinic, got in the car, and headed home. Tank was elated when she got to drive, and couldn't stop grinning.

"So, what's the verdict?" Goat inquired once they were on the road again. Tank blinked, and looked over at him. Then she faced forward again.

"Nothing too strenuous for the next three days," she replied. "Meaning no running, jumping, or other rough exercise."

Goat hummed.

"It sucks, I know," Tank deadpanned. Goat's lips twitched in a smile.

"So what else did you have to talk about?" Marie asked. Tank blinked again.

"What do you mean?" she countered. She didn't glance around at her mother, but kept her eyes on the road.

"You took an awfully long time for just getting stitches out," Marie continued. Tank shrugged.

"I had her do a routine examination while I was in there, and then we talked about what I should and shouldn't do," she replied enigmatically.

There was a pause while her mother waited for Tank to elaborate. When she didn't, Marie pried further.

"About what?"

Tank rolled her eyes.

"I don't want to talk about it," she said. Her tone was mild, but it held the faintest hint of an edge to it that told her mother without a doubt that she shouldn't press the issue.

Marie wisely fell silent.

"So, Reaps, what's your verdict?" Tank asked after a few minutes of not talking.

"They're on the mend," he said. "It'll be another month before they heal, though."

Tank nodded, and turned into the driveway of the Halley household. "That sucks."

Reaper snorted with some disbelief. "No shit," he murmured.

Tank just smiled, and put on the brakes so that Reaper could get out.

* * *

_**Disclaimer**: I don't own Doom. The only ones I own are the slowly-diminishing list of original characters that you see._

_I'm on time, again. Wow, this must be a record for me, right? Ha ha. The Dr. Quinn reference is from a show that used to air on television (can't remember what channel it was on). I really do know a Dr. Quinn in real life (she was my pediatrician when I was a kid). I just had to stick her in there._

_Well, aside from schoolwork (which has been amazingly light, lately), I've taken to playing **Final Fantasy VII: Crisis Core**. That's the one with Zack Fair as the main character. For me, it's like trying to play through a train wreck: I know what's going to happen, and I know it's going to be tragic and sad, but I just can't take my eyes off of it because I'm so fascinated. O.o_

_So yeah. I just got to the part today where Sephiroth announces that they're going to Nibelheim (Cloud cracks me up, by the way- I laughed my ass off when he and Zack first met), and I almost cried because I know that the game's almost over, now. What happens next is going to play out just like it did in the original game, and then I'm gonna be all like "OMG, SEPHIROTH YOU DICKWAD, HOW COULD YOU KILL ALL THOSE PEOPLE" and all that, and then I'm gonna pull a Luke Skywalker and be like "ZAAAAAAAACK!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"_

_Yes, if you couldn't tell, I get VERY into my video games. ...I've been thinking about playing through FFVII again, just for the heck of it. That's the only FF game I've actually beaten, so far. Sad, isn't it? __When Angeal died, I was sitting in the middle of the cafeteria at school, and I literally shouted at the screen, "ANGEAL, YOU PRICK! YOU CAN'T JUST UP AND DIE ON ME!! YOU MADE ZACK THE PUPPY CRY!!" Then I realized what I'd just done. Embarrassing, much? *giggles* But really, I **like** Zack. He's funny. So when he was crying, **I** was crying. It was a mess._

_Ahem._

_Anyway, that's enough of my train-wreck A/N ranting._

_A huge 'thank you' goes to my two most faithful reviewers: **CaffeineKid** and **JayDee**. You guys are awesome, and I'm glad you liked the last chapter!_

_To **JayDee**: I'm sorry I can't post more than once a week in most cases. If I did, then we'd get through this story WAY too fast, plus I wouldn't have time to edit each chapter and make it the best I can. Unfortunately, that just means I'll have to stick to the once-a-week updates. Sorry!_

_Next chapter should be posted 11-16-09._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	20. 2041 AD St Louis Missouri 1700 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_In my own wavering balance desire fluctuates with modesty...__"  
--Sarah Brightman, 'In Trutina'_

_**Chapter 19.**_

* * *

_**2041 A.D. - Martial Arts Dojo, St. Louis County, Missouri - 1700 hours**_

Tank allowed the shop door to close behind her with a quiet thud. She dropped her pouch on one of the folding chairs lined up on the tile floor before the mats. Then she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the familiar smells of her family's martial arts dojo.

It was a relatively small thing, only occupying about one thousand square feet or so. About three-quarters of that was covered with black rubber mats, upon which the students and teachers usually trained. Bolted to the right wall were focus masters, their pads latched into their places in preparation for training. Upon the left wall hung pictures and old-fashioned photographs of the current and previous masters.

On the wall near the door hung the photograph of her father's late best friend, the former owner and master of the dojo.

Sighing, Tank slipped off her shoes and socks, tucking her socks into her tennis shoes before she put them on the white rack that sat against the right wall. Then she shrugged out of her capris to reveal a pair of dance leggings, and removed her t-shirt in favor of the skin-tight tank top that she was wearing over her sports bra. That done, Tank folded her outer clothes and laid them on the chair atop her pouch. She wasted no more time in walking out to the middle of the mats.

Once she was in place, Tank faced the far wall, closed her eyes, and centered herself. She took a deep breath, and then launched into a series of motions.

_Sanshin kata._

_Step forward with left foot, strike with right hand. Grab the clavicle, tear it out. Step forward with right foot, repeat the process using left hand. Left foot, right hand. Right foot, left hand. Turn to the right to meet another invisible enemy. Circle block with right hand, trap the opponent's arm with the left hand, pull him in, and then strike with both hands, using all the power in the body to shatter the opponent's clavicle and ribs._

_Spin one hundred eighty degrees, block, block, strike. Turn to the right to meet another enemy, block, block, double strike. Take a step back, send out a double strike into the enemy's ribs. Take another step back, repeat the process. Take one more step back, block a kick to the midsection._

_Relax._

_Stand at parade rest._

_Breathe in, breathe out. In, out._

Tank opened her eyes again.

She wasn't even breathing heavily, though her left leg and hip ached dully as they'd come to often do since she'd been wounded. The ages-old motions of the Sanshin kata had left her feeling refreshed and focused as they hadn't done since she'd last left home to be stationed in California.

Memories of her teenage years, when she'd begun to learn the secrets of the Ban Ying Ruan martial art, flashed through her head. With a smile, Tank closed her eyes and fell into the familiar rhythms of the most advanced kata she knew.

Her motions were slow, since the kata involved kicking, but Tank didn't falter, more sure-footed than she was even when training with her squadmates.

She finished five minutes later, and then, after taking a moment to breathe, began to stretch, paying extra attention to her left leg. Tank breathed deliberately and slowly as her wounds were pulled a little, but otherwise she didn't react outwardly to the strain. In fact, she relished in it, in the feel of the exertion in her muscles.

After all, she had been restless after one day of not being able to move. Fourteen days off her feet had almost driven her stir-crazy.

It was a while before Tank finally thought that she had stretched enough to continue. She flawlessly transitioned from a crouching leg stretch into a rising kick that would have sent an enemy to the floor.

From there, she spun, her arm held out in front of her as though to block a punch, and pulled her invisible opponent in towards her to take their balance before she sent a palm-heel strike into what would have been his nose.

She continued her shadow sparring for a time, her movements careful and deliberate. It was almost a half-hour later that she first noticed that she had an audience.

Tank froze in the middle of a roundhouse kick when she sensed him sitting there, and slowly turned her head to face him.

Reaper's hazel eyes gazed back at her intensely. Tank swallowed. Then she gradually lowered her foot and relaxed her stance until she was standing, facing him, with her arms held loosely at her sides, her feet at a comfortable distance apart.

For a few moments, all was silent as Tank and Reaper stared at each other. Then Tank awkwardly cleared her throat.

"Hey," she said. Reaper didn't reply for a second.

"So that was how you beat me so badly the last time we sparred," he murmured at long last. Tank blinked.

"Which time was that?" she asked.

"When I kicked you in the chest and ended up having to perform CPR on you because your lungs were paralyzed," Reaper replied. Tank nodded, looking away from him.

"Oh," she said, "that time."

There was a brief pause.

"So how long have you been doing this?" he asked amiably. Tank smiled at the attempt to direct the conversation away from the tender subject, and turned away from Reaper to head to the miniature refrigerator in the back of the dojo. She opened it, pulled out two bottles of chilled water, and crossed the room again to sit down in a folding chair next to Reaper.

"Since I was fourteen," Tank told him, handing him one of the water bottles.

"Thanks," he said, taking it and unscrewing the cap. Tank smiled, opening her own and taking a swig of the cold water.

"I trained for two years, between the ages of fourteen and sixteen," she elaborated, "at which time I pretty much just stopped training until I was about seventeen. Then I joined the Naval ROTC, and discovered that if I knew my martial arts I would have an edge over a lot of the people in my class. So I went back to Missouri during my leave time and had my dad teach me."

Reaper hummed, taking a sip from his water bottle. Tank gulped another mouthful before eyeing him.

"How you holding up?" she inquired. Reaper shrugged.

"Well enough," he returned. "I wish I could move around."

Tank smiled sympathetically. "I hear you there."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "You have no reason to complain, anymore."

"True," she admitted, and then smirked at him. "Kind of comes with having my stitches removed earlier today, though, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, go on and fucking rub it in," Reaper groused. Tank rolled her eyes, letting his apparant bad mood wash over her ineffectually.

"So what are you doing down here?" she asked. Reaper shrugged.

"Your mother said you were probably down here," he replied with a sigh. "She had to run some errands, and I decided to come down and hang with you."

Tank smiled, briefly raising her eyebrows in pleased surprise. Her voice was slightly disbelieving when she asked, "You wanted to hang out with me?"

"Yeah, well," Reaper hedged awkwardly. "Isn't that what dating couples do?"

Tank laughed. "I suppose it is."

She sighed contentedly, and leaned her elbows on her knees, hunching her shoulders and gazing around at the dojo's interior.

"You know," she ventured after a few minutes of comfortable silence. "I know that this place is kind of a run-down hole in the wall, but I really have some pretty fond memories of it."

"Really?" Reaper asked flatly. Tank smiled over at him.

"Of course," she responded in a too-cheerful voice. "I spent so much time cleaning it, it's become engrained into my hands and my heart."

She laid her right hand over her heart, straightening up and puffing out her chest in a dramatic fashion. Reaper chuckled.

"You look like a peacock," he deadpanned. Tank laughed.

"Thank you, thank you," she quipped, mock-bowing to an invisible audience. "I'll be here all week."

"So why'd you come down here?" he asked. "Aside from training, that is."

Tank shrugged, leaning forward again. "Dad asked me to come down and help him teach tonight."

Reaper raised his eyebrows slightly. "Aren't there other teachers that can do that?"

"Sure." Tank nodded. "But he knows that he can throw me around without consequence, whereas he can't toss the other teachers around very well. They're all heavier than I am."

"They all weigh over a hundred forty-five pounds?" Reaper asked. Tank chuckled.

"Most of them are men," she replied. "And the ones who teach the kids' class are kids themselves. Dad can't throw them around 'cause they're too light."

Reaper finally cracked a smile, and shook his head. They conversed off and on until the teachers started arriving, and Tank had to greet them.

Then Reaper just watched her work.

* * *

_**2041 A.D. - Halley Household, St. Louis County, Missouri - 2000 hours**_

A deceptively delicate-looking hand reached around the shower curtain in the Halleys' hall bathroom to turn the knob on for the hot water. Its owner, Tank, withdrew her fingers when cool water began to flood out of the nozzle.

It was around eight o'clock at night. Tank's father was down at the dojo teaching again, and her mother and siblings had gone out to see a movie. The trio had gotten Pug to tag along, and somehow the four of them had coerced Goat into going, as well. They would be gone for probably the next two hours, which meant that Tank could finally get some peace and quiet.

She sighed contentedly and pulled the band out of the end of her braid, letting her hair fall loose. It stuck to her sweaty neck like a second skin. Tank just shrugged away the uncomfortable sensation and stripped out of her clothes, laying her folded towel on the closed toilet lid before she stepped into the tub, pulling the shower curtain closed as she went.

By this time, the water was running hot. Tank turned it down to a less scalding temperature. Then she pulled the switch on the faucet, and the water stopped for a few seconds before blasting out of the shower head.

Tank squeaked as she got caught full-on in the face by the warm water.

"Damn it," she swore quietly, wiping her now-dripping hair out of her eyes. Then she sighed, unconcerned, and set to washing herself.

She shampooed her hair and then rinsed it. After that, she washed her face and shaved the essentials. Then Tank put some sweet-smelling shower gel on a loofah that she had borrowed from her mother, and set to scrubbing herself down.

The hot water stung on her skin after she ran the rough loofah across it, especially on her shoulders and upper arms, but it refreshed her, woke her up. It also had the added effect of leaving her skin feeling silky and smooth.

After she was done, Tank put the sponge-like tool back in its place, and then made to shut off the water. However, she froze briefly when a knock sounded at the door.

"Come in!" she called. The door opened, and someone stepped into the bathroom before closing the door behind them. Tank tried to peer at their silhouette through the slightly translucent curtain, but couldn't discern who they were.

"You like hot showers, don't you?" Ah. Reaper. "The mirrors are all fogged up from the steam."

Tank sighed, and smiled at the way she'd been so paranoid. "Yeah, I like 'em when I can take 'em."

She paused. "What's up?"

"Had to brush my teeth," he absently replied. Tank could hear the sink start to run. She raised her eyebrows.

"So you _weren't_ in here just to catch a glimpse of my naked silhouette?" Her voice held a sharp bite of sarcasm in it. There was a pregnant pause. Tank couldn't hear anything over the noise of the water hitting the tub to tell what Reaper was doing.

"Did you want me to try?" he countered after a long moment. Now it was Tank's turn to pause thoughtfully.

She absently ran a hand down her sternum to smooth over the surprisingly soft skin of her breasts. Vaguely musing at how silky they felt after she had washed them, Tank then found herself wondering what they would feel if Reaper's rough hands replaced hers.

Tank didn't try to fight down the rush of heat she felt at the idea.

She swallowed. "Honestly?"

"Honestly." Reaper's voice was quiet, but Tank jumped at its close proximity. She looked over at the shower curtain to see his tall silhouette sharply defined against the plastic. She swallowed and looked back down towards the drain.

Her voice was slightly breathless when she answered him, "Right now, I honestly don't think I'd complain much."

There was another moment of silence. The tension in the air between them was so thick that Tank mused, in the back of her mind, that she could have cut it with a knife.

"You know, you're really not making this easy."

Tank slowly turned to look at the shower curtain out of the corner of her eye again.

"Not making what easy?" Her voice was kind of quiet. She faintly heard Reaper take a sharp breath over the sound of the water.

"Staying celibate," he responded just as quietly as she had. Tank blushed, and gripped the edge of the shower curtain, wrapping it around her to preserve her modesty as she peered around it at Reaper.

She saw his eyes widen, and she also saw his breathing quicken. She felt her own heartbeat increase its pace.

"Listen and I'll tell you a secret," she whispered to him. He took a breath and bent down to hear her better. Tank tilted her head up, placing her chin on his shoulder and turning her mouth to his ear.

"You're not making it easy, either."

Reaper made a strangled noise, almost inaudible, and his hand flashed out to grab her upper arm. Tank held still as he pulled her to him, the shower curtain getting pinned between their bodies.

"You're _really_ not helping," he growled into her ear. Tank nipped his earlobe. He loosened his hold on her in shock.

"_You're_ not, _either_," she grumbled. She pulled her arm out of his grasp to grab his chin and turn his face to hers.

The kiss she gave him was heated, and almost violent in its intensity. When Tank finally released him, his hand was digging into her back where he was pressing her to him. His lips were red and swollen from the almost bruising force she had used.

Both of them were panting.

"John," Tank gasped. She felt something pressing into her belly. She knew _exactly_ what it was. Reaper lowered his mouth to her ear.

"That's what you do to me," he breathed. Tank closed her eyes, taking a shaky breath as she unconsciously tilted her head to the side.

"John," she whispered. "John, we _can't_..."

"We could."

Tank released a heavy sigh that trembled with the beat of her throbbing heart. "We can't," she repeated. "I'm not on any birth control, or anything..."

Reaper's breath was hot, hotter than the water that was cascading over Tank's back, when he released it in a puff against her neck.

"You're right," he murmured. His voice was almost a groan. "You're right."

She could feel Reaper's heart pounding in his chest.

"It doesn't make this any easier, though."

"I hear you, there," she acknowledged softly. "Do you know what you're _doing_ to me?"

His hum was quiet and inquisitive as he gently nudged her nose with his. "Why don't you tell me? Since I can't find out for myself, that is."

Tank suddenly spun away from him, leaning her back against his chest, though the shower curtain remained in between them. She grabbed his hand from her arm and clapped it over her breast, allowing him to feel the pert nipple.

She heard his heavy gasp as he pulled her tighter against him.

"_That's_ what you're doing to me," she panted, keeping her voice just barely audible. She tried to fight down the weakness in her knees and the fire in her belly, to no avail. Tank found herself shivering despite the heat of the shower.

"_Amanda_," Reaper gritted out. Tank could tell he was struggling to keep his voice quiet. She gasped as he moved his thumb around to flick her nipple.

"Don't!" she hissed. Then, gentler, "Don't."

A few seconds passed. Then Reaper sighed, and his grip on her eased. When he moved away from her, Tank immediately lamented the loss of his warmth that had diffused through the shower curtain into her skin.

She peered around the edge of the curtain again to find him leaning heavily against the sink, his knuckles white where they gripped the fake marble countertop.

"John," she called, voice barely a whisper. He lifted his head slightly to show that he was listening.

"Maybe someday," she breathed. "Maybe someday you'll get what you've been waiting for."

She watched as he bent over to press his forehead against the cool surface.

"I just wish you'd stop fucking _tormenting_ me in the meanwhile," he groused.

Tank glanced at his crotch and was slightly surprised to see a bulge in his pants. She looked back up to his face to see his blazing hazel eyes glittering at her. Tank swallowed.

"Do you need to take care of something before you go back out?" she asked him quietly, eyeing his jeans. Reaper followed her gaze, and sighed.

"Probably," he admitted softly. Tank took a shaky breath.

"Go ahead and do it," she told him. When he cast her an incredulous look, she flushed and looked away, slightly embarrassed.

"In front of you?" he inquired, keeping his voice down. Tank huffed, feeling more awkward by the second, and ducked back behind the shower curtain as she felt the temperature in her cheeks go up a few notches.

"I don't care," she told him levelly. "Just keep the volume down."

There was a long pause. Then Reaper heaved an exasperated breath.

"You're _really_ not helping to discourage me," he muttered. She heard the sound of his fly unzipping and the toilet seat going up.

She inwardly swore that her face had invented a new shade of red, she was blushing so much.

It didn't help that whenever she closed her eyes Tank saw Reaper's bare chest and firm, toned ass, and felt his rough palm upon her bare breast. Grimacing, she reached for the shower knob and turned it all the way to cold.

She yelped when the pleasantly warm stream suddenly turned icy, but it did the trick.

Tank gritted her teeth and endured the shiver-inducing coldness until she heard Reaper gasp. Blinking, Tank found curiosity crossing her mind. She warred with it for a few seconds, and then finally gave in and peeked around the edge of the shower curtain.

She swallowed, and stared.

Tank had never seen a man's genitals before, at least not when their owner wasn't dead. When the team had all showered back at the barracks, Tank had always either gone before the men or after them so that they couldn't ogle her.

Thus, she'd never seen a man when he was aroused, either.

Tank quickly ducked back behind the curtain, but the damage was already done. She couldn't get the picture out of her head, and the thought that _she_ had done that to _Reaper_ made her heart pound and her mouth go dry.

A few minutes later, she heard him put the toilet seat down again, and the sink started to run.

"Is it alright if I flush it?" The sudden question startled her, and it must have shown in her small squeak.

Tank released a shaking breath. "Yeah," she said, voice an octave higher than normal, "just give me a second."

She reached over and turned the water off. The sudden absence of the cold water meant that the warm air hit her like a hammer. Tank glanced down at herself to see goosebumps rising all across her arms.

"Go ahead," she muttered. The toilet flushed a second later. "Could you hand me my towel, please?"

There was silence for a second. Then his hand appeared around the edge of the curtain, holding the fluffy white towel that she'd set aside for herself.

"Thanks," she said, taking it from him. Tank heard Reaper take a shaky breath.

"Amanda." His voice was throaty and rich. Tank knew that he was still aching for her, just as she was aching for him, but she wouldn't let herself fall into temptation. Not while so many things could possibly still go wrong.

"Think of it this way, John," she said. She cleared her throat to mask her voice's newfound richness. "The longer we _wait_, the sweeter it'll be when we finally _do_."

Reaper groaned. "You're _really_ not doing anything to help, you know."

"Stop complaining!" Tank finally snapped at him, her frustration making her irritable. Reaper fell silent.

Tank took a trembling breath. "At least you can just go jerk off when you're aroused," she grumbled, viciously scrubbing herself dry with her towel. "Unlike you, I can't just rub myself for a few minutes and have an orgasm."

She fumed in silence for a few tense moments. Reaper's voice was barely a whisper when he next spoke.

"Amanda..." Tank sighed at last, and hung the towel around her neck before she peeked around the curtain again. She stared at him almost mournfully.

"We've only been dating a month and a half," she whispered. "If it's going to be like this..."

But Reaper was already shaking his head.

"No," he said. "We just have to do what we can to avoid situations like this."

"At least for now," Tank murmured, leaning up and kissing him lightly on the mouth. He hummed into her.

"At least for now," he repeated into her lips. Tank smiled. Then she remembered something that she had been planning to tell him.

"By the way, you got a letter today," she said, pulling away and looking wearily up at him. "It's on my desk in my room."

He hummed, pulling her to him again and kissing her deeply. Tank sighed into Reaper's mouth, burying her fingers in his short brown hair.

"Damn you for tempting me," she mumbled into him. Reaper just chuckled until Tank finally pushed him away.

"Go take a shower and brush your teeth," she ordered when he raised his eyebrows. "Then meet me out in the living room."

Reaper mock-saluted her. "Yes, ma'am."

Tank smiled at her boyfriend, and watched as he sidled out of the bathroom, talking to Binx as he went. Before Reaper could shut the door, however, Binx darted into the bathroom and jumped up onto the sink. His slitted yellow eyes followed Tank as she stepped out of the tub with the towel wrapped around her.

Tank absently scratched the cat behind the ears as she leaned against the sink.

"You're lucky, you know," she muttered to Binx. "You're neutered. You don't have to worry about hormones."

Binx just purred and bumped his nose against Tank's palm.

Tank smiled, and dressed quickly in the pajamas she had brought in, before brushing her teeth and toweling dry her hair. She left the faucet running a little, letting Binx drink out of it. When her hair was dry, Tank quickly brushed through it and left the bathroom. Binx mewled in protest when she turned off the water. However, he shrugged it off after a second and curled up in the sink for a nap.

Tank shook her head. "Crazy cat."

Still chuckling at Binx's antics, Tank entered her room, grabbed the mail they'd gotten, and then headed out to the living room.

Reaper wasn't there, yet, though Tank could hear the water running in the master bathroom. She chuckled again and walked out to the kitchen for a glass of water.

All the windows in the house were open to catch the breeze, since it was a mild August night. As Tank grabbed a glass and began filling it from the tap, she finally looked at the letter that had been addressed to her.

She blinked when she saw the UAC logo in the corner.

"I wonder what this is about...?" she murmured to herself. Then she shrugged and began tearing the envelope open. She stopped about halfway to turn off the water, and set her glass on the counter next to the sink. When that was taken care of, she finished opening the letter and took the message out of the envelope, shaking it open.

It was from a Dr. Samantha Grimm.

Tank smiled, and took a drink of her water while she began to read the letter.

_Miss Halley,_

_Thank you for your kind well wishes on my birthday, and thank you for the gift that you sent along with it. I will be sure to use it well._

_How has life been for you? Things have been great for me; I'm a forensic archaeologist, now. I got assigned to Olduvai just a few months ago, actually. John isn't going to be very happy to hear that, if he hasn't already. Just to warn you._

_And no, I didn't know that he got into the RRTS. We really don't hear from each other except for the annual birthday cards. Is he doing alright? I heard about the July 1st incident, but I don't know much about it. We have very limited contact with Earth from up here, since signals take so long to send and receive. If you want to e-mail me, then that would probably be faster than sending letters like this._

_Liked the card, by the way. Did you make it yourself?_

"Yes," Tank said with a smile. Then she read on.

_If you want to e-mail me, then my address is ._

_Hope to hear from you soon, and thank you again._

_-Samantha_

Tank chuckled, and folded the letter up again, taking another drink from her glass. So Samantha was a forensic archaeologist? Interesting.

Still pondering this turn of events, Tank went out to the living room again, where she could now hear Reaper moving around. He met her gaze as she entered the space.

"What's so funny?" he asked softly, sitting down on the couch. Tank smiled at him.

"Just the letter I got," she answered. She extended his own letter to him. It was about four by six inches, and Tank knew it to be a card just from its weight and dimensions.

Reaper hummed noncommittally when he took it from her. "Birthday card from Sam, no doubt."

Tank smiled, knowing that that was _exactly_ what it was. "No doubt."

She drained her glass as he tore open the envelope, and then sat down next to him as he pulled the card out none-too-gently, a slight frown on his visage. Tank was silent as he read through it. About the time he snorted derisively, she put her glass down on the coffee table and leaned on his shoulder, blinking tiredly.

"Whassup?" she yawned. He huffed again, and handed her the card.

"Read for yourself," he returned grouchily. Tank sighed. _So this is what Samantha meant._

She took the card and began to read through it.

"John," she started. "Happy birthday. How have you been? I don't know about you, anymore, but I recently got a job up at Olduvai as a forensic archaeologist. I know you won't like that, but you have your calling and I have mine. I haven't heard much about or from you recently, so I'm guessing things are going well for you. I'll pray for your continued safety."

Tank paused before she read the last few lines. "I miss you. Love you, John. Samantha."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, and then Tank turned to her boyfriend. He was brooding, his gaze dark as he stared unseeingly at the coffee table.

"It's really not so bad, John," Tank said, trying to sound soothing as she fought back her sleepiness. He snorted.

"Forensic archaeology isn't something to laugh at," Reaper grumbled. "My parents got killed doing it."

Tank raised her eyebrows at him. "And being a Marine _is?_" she retorted. "Reaper, as members of RRTS we face more life-threatening situations in one year than most people face their entire _lives_. And you call forensic archaeology dangerous? It's practically a desk job, compared to us!"

Reaper scowled. Tank could see that she wasn't going to convince him otherwise.

Yawning, she curled up next to him, laying her head in his lap in an unconcerned fashion. "I wouldn't worry about her, Reaps. Samantha's a smart girl. She'll be fine."

He finally sighed, and sat her up again so that he could swing his legs up onto the couch and lay down behind her. Tank curled into him with a quiet purr of contentment.

"I don't know," he groused. "Sometimes I think she has less common sense than a squirrel."

Tank paused, and then burst out giggling at the comparison. She felt more than saw Reaper's incredulously questioning look.

"Mental images," she gasped out. "Samantha with a squirrel's tail and twitching nose."

He snorted, and then chuckled, finally relaxing. Tank yawned again as he wrapped his arm around her waist, his other coming up to pillow his head.

"Love you, John," Tank whispered.

"Love you, too," Reaper murmured.

Tank smiled, and then drifted off into a peaceful sleep. Reaper wasn't long in following.

* * *

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Doom. There, take that, you sissy lawyers. Nyah!_

_I hope that I got the motions of the Sanshin kata down right. It's been a while since I've performed it in full, so things might be incorrect._

_The shower scene was awkward to write, but there was something that I wanted to demonstrate with it. I always go around hearing "I got caught up in the moment" and "He was too irresistable for me to make him stop" and such things as that. This was to illustrate that Tank rules her body, not the other way around, which is as it should be. If we all gave in to our instincts all the time, there would be a lot of problems in people's relationships. As it is, Tank makes a choice and sticks by it for both her sake and Reaper's. Sometimes, you can't just "give in". That's a value I've lived with and treasured all my life, and it's one of the values that Tank holds in high regard, as well. After all, our possession of self-control and free will means that we always have a choice in matters of our own bodies, whether our decisions correspond with what our bodies want or not. Sometimes you can't have the things you want the most, and that's all there is to it._

_Hope that explains some things... but it was really just a rant. You can disregard it if you want._

_Sorry that this chapter is a day late. I didn't realize that today was TUESDAY until about a half-hour ago or so, and it's 10:10 p.m. where I'm at. I was too excited to see what score I got on my math test (it was a solid B, by the way) because I had a really good feeling about it. I totally forgot about this chapter yesterday._

_Big thank you to those of you who reviewed the last chapter! **CaffeineKid **and **JayDee**, you guys are awesome! To **CaffeineKid,** I hope this satisfies your inquiry towards Reaper's health. ^.~_

_Next chapter should be posted 11-23-09._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	21. 2041 AD RRTS Barracks 2000 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_For every fall I'll ever break/ Each moment's breath I wanna taste/ Confidence, and conscience,/ Decadence, extravagance/ A never-ending providence/ And loving while I have the chance...__"__  
--The Corrs, 'Angel'_

_**Chapter 20.**_

* * *

_**2041 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 2000 hours**_

Tank stepped out of the squad Humvee and stretched her arms over her head, arching her back. She heard her spine pop a couple of times, and sighed in contentment.

It was September third, two months after she and Reaper had gone to Missouri. Goat and Pug had gone back to Twentynine Palms in August, and Reaper and Tank had stayed at her parents' house until September second. Then they'd said goodbye and flown back to Ontario International Airport, where they'd been picked up by Hellraiser.

Now they were back.

Reaper exited the Humvee, as well, stretching gingerly. His ribs were fully healed, if a little tender. Tank knew that he was still working on getting back into shape from his one-and-a-half-month long recovery; she also knew that Sarge would be merciless in whipping them back into fitness.

The muscles in Reaper's arms, back, chest, and shoulders had gained definition, though, from moving his wheelchair. Tank really appreciated the view.

Shaking her head, Tank headed around to the back of the Humvee to get her duffel bag out. Reaper was close at her heels.

"Glad to be back?" Hellraiser asked them as he joined them around the back of the Humvee. Tank groaned, grimacing.

"Hell, no," she said. Reaper glanced at her while Hellraiser just grinned and chuckled maniacally.

"Scared?" Hellraiser inquired. Tank shuddered.

"I have every reason _to_ be," she growled at him. "You know how Sarge is going to be!"

"Wait, what's Sarge going to do?" asked Reaper. Tank turned her gaze on him.

"He's gonna train us so hard you'll _miss_ the days before the vacation."

Reaper's eyebrows shot up. "That bad?"

"Worse," Hellraiser chuckled. "And you two are going to get the brunt of it."

Tank just groaned again while Reaper stood there, wondering exactly _what_ he had gotten himself into.

Hellraiser laughed at them as he loped into the barracks to tell Sarge that they were back. Tank sighed, shut the Humvee, and started to follow him; however, Reaper caught her wrist and pulled her so that she was facing him.

"What's up?" she asked.

"Should we tell them about us?" he countered. Tank shrugged.

"Goat and Pug already know," she stated. "If Pug hasn't told the rest of them by now, then they'll probably know as soon as he sees us. There's really no point in hiding it, though I wouldn't make it too blatantly obvious. Portman'll just harass us more than before."

"Right," Reaper said with a heavy sigh. "And that means that we should really limit the PDAs, too."

Tank smiled, and leaned up toward him. "Just don't start kissing me in the middle of training, and we should be okay."

Reaper smiled slightly, and leaned down, capturing her lips with his.

Tank chuckled into his mouth, and they parted after a second. Tank led the way into the base, slinging her duffel bag over her shoulder as she went.

Sarge met them in the atrium. He was standing in front of the stairwell with his arms crossed and a stern look on his face. Tank swallowed, suddenly knowing what a deer felt like when it was caught in the headlights. She and Reaper saluted crisply in greeting.

"Lance Corporal Amanda Halley, reporting for duty, sir," Tank said.

"Lance Corporal John Grimm, reporting for duty, sir," Reaper supplied. Sarge just stared at them.

Tank felt a bead of sweat begin to form on her forehead under Sarge's scrutiny. What was the matter with him? He had _never_ been like this with them before.

"At ease, Marines," Sarge said at last. Tank and Reaper relaxed to parade rest, and watched as Sarge circled them, sizing them up. Tank winced when Sarge prodded her in her back.

"You've lost some muscle mass, Tank," he observed. "And so have you, Reaper. What were you _doing_ in Missouri?"

"Vacationing, sir," Tank replied. Reaper remained wisely silent. Sarge came around to stand in front of them again. Tank was sharply reminded of a dog sizing up a chew toy. Sarge's gaze fell on her, scrutinizing, for several seconds.

Then he suddenly nodded, seeming satisfied, and looked at Reaper. "Good, you haven't knocked her up."

Tank gaped at Sarge for a long moment, as did Reaper, until Sarge's mouth started to twitch.

"Dwayne Casimir Mahonin!" Tank shrieked, her face flaring red. She dropped her duffel bag to the floor and walked up to him to hit him in the chest. "I cannot _believe_ you just said that!"

Sarge just laughed uproariously at the furious expression on Tank's face. Reaper just averted his gaze, cleared his throat, and tried not to look embarrassed.

"You should've seen the look on your face, Tank!" Sarge chortled. He caught her fist when she went to slap his shoulder, and gave her a warning look.

"Stop hitting me," he growled. Tank scowled at him.

"Then keep your rude comments to yourself!" she hissed. "Our relationship isn't like that!"

"Not yet, you mean," he said seriously. "Just don't let it get like that while you're on duty."

"Fine," Tank growled. "I don't plan on it going that far for a while, anyway."

She yanked her hand away and stalked over to her duffel bag.

"So does this mean you approve?" Reaper asked tentatively. Sarge turned to him, expression relaxed.

"It means that if you break her heart I'll pummel you so bad you won't know which part of you is your ass and which part of you is your head," Sarge replied levelly. Reaper nodded, his features grave.

"I don't plan on breaking her heart, sir," he said. "I'd die before I do."

Sarge nodded. "Good."

He turned to head back to his room. "The men are waiting for you downstairs. Why don't you go introduce yourselves?"

Tank blinked, and looked questioningly at Reaper as Sarge's door shut behind him. "Introduce ourselves?"

Reaper shrugged. "Maybe there're some new recruits."

The idea hit Tank hard, and she swallowed, looking at the stairwell. Her voice was quiet. "Maybe."

They stood there in silence for a few seconds before Tank suddenly felt Reaper's hand slip into hers. She looked up at him questioningly.

Reaper just stared at her, his gaze reassuring. Finally, Tank smiled at him, drawing strength from his grip, and headed for the stairwell. Their shoes clattered on the metal grating as they descended into the living quarters. Tank released Reaper's hand just as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

Six pairs of eyes gazed at them, four familiar and two new.

A cheer was heard just before Tank found herself almost tackled by a flying blur of blond hair, and then she was picked up by her arms and swung through the air. She gave a whoop of laughter.

"Pug!" she giggled. "Put me down, du verrücktes!"

Pug laughed, swinging her around one more time before he finally put her down. Then he ruffled her hair with a grin.

"Willkommenes haus, Behälter," he said. Tank stared at him blankly.

"I have no fucking clue what the hell you just said," she stated bluntly. Pug laughed again.

"And here I thought you had brushed up on your Deutsch," he lamented, though his voice remained jovial. Tank shook her head with a grin.

"Nah, I just picked that up from an old friend," she said. Pug shook his head.

"Well, what I said was 'Welcome home, Tank', but I guess that you got the idea," he chuckled. Then he turned to Reaper and shook the brunette's hand.

"Welcome back, Reaps," Pug greeted. Reaper blinked, and then looked between Tank and Pug as Pug stepped away again.

"Is that nickname going to stick?" he asked. Tank and Pug exchanged looks, and then shrugged in unison.

"It's easier than saying 'Reaper' all the time," Tank explained. Reaper sighed mournfully.

"Goodbye, fearsome alias," he lamented. Tank laughed out loud.

"It's not so bad!" she exclaimed.

"Whatever you say, _Tank_. Whatever you say."

"Hey! Comin' through!" boomed a bass voice, and Pug hurriedly moved out of the way as Destroyer and Goat came up to them. Destroyer immediately pulled Tank into a bear hug, Tank laughing, while Goat said hello to Reaper.

"Good to see you, too, Destroyer," Tank said. Destroyer nodded, and let her go so that Goat could greet her. Then they backed off.

"Hey, whaddaya know?" drawled a tenor voice from farther back in the room. "The girls are back."

"Fuck off, Portman!" Tank returned, though it was only half-hearted. She couldn't keep her smile off of her face.

"Good to see you, too, bitch," Portman retorted, though his tone was amiable. "And look, you brought the whelp home with you."

Tank just smirked, and Reaper rolled his eyes.

Then their three friends backed off, and Tank and Reaper headed over to the bunk bed in the corner. Reaper tossed his duffel up onto the top bunk, and Tank settled hers on the bottom bunk before turning to her locker, beside which rested Reaper's.

It was then that Tank looked around the room and her eyes fell on two new faces.

One was an Asian man, with black hair and eyes. He had a calm, almost serene, look on his face, but his eyes glittered with an intelligence that belied a sharp mind. He stood about five foot ten, and probably weighed only a little more than Tank did, though his compact frame was made up of mostly muscle. He looked to be only a year or so older than Tank was, though she couldn't be sure.

The other was a young man, younger than Tank, with red hair and jade-green eyes. He had a nervous twitch in his hands, a loopy smile on his face, was a couple inches taller than Tank, around five foot eleven, and weighed probably the greater part of one hundred and eighty pounds.

The man strode up to Tank when he saw the brunette looking at him, and saluted crisply.

"PFC Brian Nicholas Cable," the man said. Tank blinked, and then saluted in return.

"Lance Corporal Amanda Halley," Tank returned. "You can call me Tank."

"And I'm Reaper," Reaper said, glancing at Brian out of the corner of his eye. He was fishing something out of his duffel bag.

"Lance Corporal John Grimm, in other words," Tank drawled flatly when Reaper failed to elaborate. Then Tank held out her hand to Brian. "Welcome to the Rapid Response Tactical Squad, rookie."

Brian grinned, and shook Tank's hand. "Who're you calling a rookie?" he asked amiably.

Tank withdrew her hand. Then she smiled.

"I'm calling you a rookie," she said, "because you _are_ a rookie. So get used to it, at least until you get a nickname."

Brian laughed for a moment before walking back over to his bunk. Tank then turned to the other new man, and waved.

"Hi to you, too," she said. The Asian man nodded to her.

"We're calling him Mac," supplied Portman in a vague attempt to be helpful. "Can't pronounce his fucking name."

Tank raised her eyebrows. "Really, now," she said, and then turned to Mac. "Try me."

Mac gave her a faint smile. "Katsuhiko Kumanosuke Takaashi," he stated.

Tank paused, studying Mac for a moment.

"Katsuhiko Kumanosuke Takaashi," she mused, rolling the name around on her tongue. "Long name. Japanese?"

Mac just smiled. Tank shrugged.

"Katsuhiko alone is a mouthful," she stated. "I don't know how you guys got Mac out of his name, though."

"I like Big Macs and baseball," Mac told her. Tank laughed, and she glimpsed a minuscule smile on Reaper's mouth out of the corner of her eye before he turned away again.

"That works," she said. "Mac it is, then."

* * *

_**2041 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 2000 hours**_

Tank groaned as she trooped into the kitchen at the barracks, fresh from her shower and aiming for some painkillers. Reaper was not far behind her, holding an ice pack to his forehead. Tank headed to the cupboards for a pair of glasses and some ibuprofen; Reaper just sat shakily down at the table, cradling his head in his hand.

"You okay?" Tank asked him, filling both of the glasses with water from the tap. She walked stiffly over to sit down across from him, setting the glasses down and popping the top on the medicine bottle.

Reaper groaned faintly. "When you said I would _miss_ the days before leave, you weren't fucking _kidding_."

"I tried to tell you that," she reminded him gently. He sighed.

"Yeah, well, he didn't have to kick me in the head so hard," he groused. Tank smiled ruefully, and shook a pair of pills out of the bottle into her palm. Then she handed them to Reaper, who popped them before taking a swig from one of the glasses.

"Sarge is only making sure that we're in shape enough to live through whatever our next mission is," Tank told him. She took his free right hand in both of hers, resting them on the tabletop.

"Yeah, well, even with all the training we did after I recovered, it still wasn't enough," he grumbled irritably, but didn't pull his hand away. Tank flipped his hand so that his palm was facing the ceiling. The fingertips of her right hand traced idle shapes on his skin as she focused on relaxing the over-taxed muscles of her body.

"It would have been worse had we not done that," Tank reminded him, her voice quiet so that she didn't aggravate his headache. Reaper winced faintly nevertheless.

"John?" Tank asked softly. He opened his right eye, the other half of his forehead covered by his ice pack. She frowned when she saw that he couldn't focus on her properly.

"How many of me do you see?" Tank asked. He squinted, and then groaned and closed his eye again. Her suspicions mounted.

"Too many," he replied. Tank sighed. _Bingo._

"How many?"

"Two? Three?" he squinted at her again. "Stop moving so I can count you, goddamn it."

Tank smiled, feeling a twinge of concern in her heart. "I'm not moving, John. Come on, we'd better get you to the infirmary."

"What about Sarge?" asked Reaper as Tank rounded the table and began to help him up. He wobbled dangerously about halfway up from his seat, but Tank's grip was firm, and he remained standing.

"I'll deal with him," Tank stated, her voice soothingly gentle and quiet. She absently scowled at the wall as Reaper maneuvered haphazardly out from the bench.

"Honestly, I should think that Sarge would know that head injuries are more easily attained after each consecutive injury," she muttered. Reaper swayed almost drunkenly, and Tank pulled his arm across her shoulders, wrapped her left arm around his waist, and braced him against her aching body. Then they made their way out of the kitchen and across the hall to the infirmary, whose door was located in the same hallway as Sarge's office.

The infirmary was a clean, organized place with a few cots spaced through the room against the walls. Dividing curtains hung from rods that ran across the ceiling. Various medicine chests and supply carts were scattered around the room.

Tank led Reaper over to the bed nearest to the infirmary's restroom, and slowly sat him down on the side of the mattress. When he was finally sitting, Tank got up and knelt in front of him.

"Reaper, I need you to take that ice pack away from your head for a moment," she told him, speaking slowly and deliberately to ensure that he understood her. Reaper reluctantly did as he was told.

Tank winced at the size and location of the bruise forming on Reaper's head. It stretched from his temple down to his left cheek; his left eye was slightly swollen. He gazed at her with some difficulty. Tank shook her head and pulled one of the carts over.

Reaper grimaced at the loud clatter that the cart made.

Tank pulled out a small flashlight that would allow her to see into his eyes. She turned it on, and spoke to her boyfriend.

"Reaper, can you follow this light without moving your head?"

Reaper's eyes trailed after the flashlight as Tank moved it up, down, left, and right, but she could see the way that his pupils dilated and his eyes trembled from the strain.

"Good," she said, masking her worry with a professional demeanor. "Now, I need you to look straight at it, and don't blink."

Reaper did as he was told, and Tank stared through the eyepiece into his pupils. What she saw didn't please her. Finally she sighed, and put the tool away.

"Put that ice pack back on your head," she said. Reaper did so with a grateful sigh, leaning his head against the cold surface.

"Do you feel sleepy?" Tank asked. Reaper grunted.

"A bit," he admitted.

"Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous?"

Reaper opened his right eye to glare at her. "Some of both."

"You're irritable, that much is for certain."

"What's going on, here?" The baritone voice was incredulous where it came from the entrance of the infirmary, and Tank set her features in a scowl before she got to her feet to face the intruder.

"What the fuck were you thinking, kicking him in the head like that?" she demanded. "You oughta know how easy it is to obtain a head injury so soon after a prior one!"

Sarge frowned, but crossed the room to them nonetheless. "Well, what's the diagnosis, then?"

Tank shook her head disapprovingly. "Another concussion," she bluntly informed him. "He's lucky it was only a glancing blow, or else it could've done much, _much_ worse."

She crossed her arms over her chest, glowering dangerously up at Sarge. "Now he'll be out for another two fucking _days_, thanks to you. I hope you're satisfied."

Reaper groaned, drawing their gazes. "Could you keep it down?"

Tank grimaced, knowing how much pain he had to be in to ask something like that. She noticed that Reaper's face was lightening in its hue by the second.

"How's your stomach doing?" she asked. Reaper paled, turning almost green. Tank's eyes widened, and she hastily grabbed the wastebasket, bringing it over to Reaper. The ice pack fell to the bed with a thump as he grabbed the metal can and pulled it into his lap, hunching over it with a grimace.

All was still for a second.

"John?" asked Sarge. Reaper groaned.

"I think I'm gonna be sick," he moaned. Tank sat down on the edge of the bed next to him, laying her hand on his back and rubbing gently through the cloth of his black tank top. She could feel the faint tremors that ran through him.

"Don't hold it back, John," Tank instructed. "It'll just make it worse."

Reaper groaned again in response and stuck his face in the can with a small burp. Tank looked up at Sarge.

"You might not want to hang around, Sarge," she said, her glare cold. "It's bound to be nasty when he finally does lose it."

Sarge frowned at her. "Fine," he grumbled. "Update me on his status every hour or so."

"Yes, sir," Tank confirmed, still displeased with the whole situation. Reaper groaned faintly again as Sarge walked out.

Tank sighed, and leaned into Reaper's side to offer her support. It seemed that that was all that Reaper needed, for his body finally tensed at that moment. He gagged, and it was followed by the sound of something splattering into the plastic liner of the trash can.

Tank winced.

It was going to be a _long_ night.

* * *

_**Disclaimer:** Don't own it. Don't sue._

_Damn, I was only 7 minutes late, this time! Sorry. I hope I got the German in here right- I was using Dictionary (dot) com's translator again. And p__oor Reaper. He's got a concussion. I pity him, and that's all there is to say._

_Finally saw the new Star Trek movie. Loved it. Loved the interactions between Spock, Kirk, and McCoy. Karl Urban did a good job, I thought._

_Thanks to the people who reviewed the last chapter: **JayDee**, **CaffeineKid**, and to my latest reviewer, **Steff7**. You guys are awesome~! And to **Steff7**, I'm glad you like Tank so much! Hugs to all of you!_

_Next chapter should be up 11-30-09._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	22. 2041 AD RRTS Barracks 0800 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_Here I stand/ Helpless and left for dead/ ...Easy to find what's wrong/ Harder to find what's right/ ...Say goodbye/ As we dance with the Devil tonight/ Don't you dare look at him in the eye/ As we dance with the Devil tonight..."  
--Breaking Benjamin, 'Dance with the Devil'_

_**Chapter 21.**_

* * *

_**2041 A.D. - ?????? - ???? hours**_

_Why the hell did this have to happen on Christmas, of all times?_

_That was what was running through Amanda's head as she ducked behind a whitewashed support pillar, clutching her assault rifle to her chest. Grimacing, she reached up and brushed her bangs out of her face; they were sticking to her cheeks because of the sweat on them, an uncomfortable sensation to be sure. Amanda flinched when the sound of bullets hitting the pillar met her ears._

_"_Amanda, how you holding up?_" It was Goat. He was about ten feet to Amanda's left, taking cover behind his own pillar. She could barely hear his voice on the comm over the echoing report of gunfire._

_"Well enough," she replied. She winced again as a bullet ricocheted off of the side of the pillar and into the soft flesh of a civilian's thigh. The woman in question screeched in pain, collapsing._

_"I'd be better if innocents weren't getting killed!" she growled, and hastily ducked out from behind her cover to fire off a few rounds at the enemy. "And why the _fuck_ did they have to do this on _Christmas_, of all times?"_

_Amanda's indignant anger mounted. She peered down the scope of her assault rifle to pick off a man wielding an UZI. His head popped like an overripe melon, brain matter flying all over the place._

_"These people should be at home, giving each other gifts and drinking eggnog, not getting shot up by people that they had nothing to do with!" she snarled, dispatching another one._

_"_Amanda, Goat._" It was Sarge, this time. "_We're finishing up here. What's your situation?_"_

_"We're pinned down behind a couple of support pillars in terminal 4-A," Amanda replied. She ducked behind her pillar again as more gunfire whizzed her way. "Most of the civilians here are either dead or wounded."_

_Glancing around, Amanda's gaze briefly came to rest on the face of a little girl, no more than five years old, eyes wide and staring and terrified and glassy, features slack in death. Amanda briefly felt bile rise in her throat, but she forced it down, looking away._

_"Goat, behind you!" Amanda shouted, and quickly shot down the terrorist who was lining Goat up in his sights._

_"_Amanda, get over here and cover me,_" Goat responded. Amanda could see him fiddling with his gun- it must've jammed._

_Glancing around, Amanda checked to see if the coast was halfway clear before she darted out from behind her cover and made her way over to her squadmate. It seemed that his gun was, indeed, jammed. Amanda put her back to his and hastily picked off a man who was lining them up in his sights._

_"Better hurry, Goat," she murmured. "They're converging on us."_

_There was movement at her one o'clock. A sniper. Amanda raised her assault rifle, sighting down the scope for the lone man. A second passed, then two. Goat shouted in what sounded like pain, and a second later, Amanda fell as his weight crashed into her from behind. Something impacted with her vest hard enough that she got the wind knocked out of her and felt something crack._

_Both of them went down in a heap, but not before Amanda got off a couple rounds at the sniper. She dimly saw him drop, dead, but the pain in her chest was nearly overwhelming. She collapsed, groaning, to the blood-slick ground._

_An instant later, a series of loud reports sounded, signifying Sarge's arrival. His autorifle was booming as he took out the enemies. Destroyer's own gun was almost quiet in comparison._

_Several moments passed. The exchange stopped. Amanda could barely hear anything over the ringing in her ears, but she could discern that there was no more danger. Sarge and Destroyer had neutralized the threat._

_"_Area clear,_" Sarge announced a second later. "_Amanda, are you and Goat okay?_"_

_Amanda gasped, trying to get her breath back. "No, sir, we're not okay."_

_She gritted her teeth and wormed her way out from underneath Goat's heavy body. When she was free, she looked him over. He was bleeding from a wound low on his thigh, almost dangerously close to his knee._

_"Goat's been shot, and it feels like I've got some cracked ribs," she reported, groaning as her ribs flared with pain. "Looks like the bullet's still in his leg. I'll have to get it out."_

_"_Do what you have to, Amanda,_" Sarge ordered. "_Destroyer and I will cover you._"_

_"Thanks," she murmured. She quickly and painfully maneuvered herself so that she was kneeling next to Goat's injured leg. He looked balefully up at her, his teeth clenched. Amanda wasted no time in slinging her medical pouch off of her shoulder and setting it down on the ground._

_"This's gonna hurt like hell, Goat," she warned him. He nodded. Amanda felt a brief pang of guilt, knowing that her own failings had gotten her squadmate shot. She opened her pack and pulled out a pair of sterile, plastic-wrapped forceps._

_Amanda carefully maneuvered herself so that she was straddling Goat's leg, sitting on the middle of his thigh._

_"Sorry," she murmured, glancing over her shoulder at him. "Gotta immobilize your leg somehow."_

_Goat just gritted his teeth and nodded. Amanda paid him no more mind, then, but felt him wrap his hands around the back of her belt. She allowed it, knowing that he would need something to hold onto. She withdrew a scalpel from her pack, slid it and the forceps out of their wrapping, and quickly set to work._

_Using the scalpel, she widened the hole in Goat's leg slightly. She felt him jerk underneath her, and clamped her own thighs tighter around his leg, immobilizing it further. Gritting her teeth, Amanda finished making the cut, and discarded the scalpel in favor of the forceps. She made sure that they were closed before she inserted the prongs into the wound._

_Goat gave a strangled yell of pain. Amanda tried to still his thrashing as best she could, probing deeper for the bullet that she knew was there. She winced as her ribs throbbed violently._

_"Sorry, Goat," she murmured absently as she worked. "It'll all be over soon, I promise. I swear it will..."_

_She kept crooning assurances as she felt the forceps hit metal, and she opened up the tool to work the prongs around the slug that was embedded in his knee. The angle of the shot had placed the bullet at a very painful spot, grating against the bone of Goat's patella and his femur. Amanda grimaced as she finally got a hold of the bullet and locked the forceps around it. Then she began the extraction. It was difficult going, what with the angle of the wound and its depth. Warm blood gushed out over her gloved hands with every beat of Goat's heart, making it even more difficult for her to keep a grip on the forceps. When the slug finally came free, Amanda felt Goat sag against the ground in relief._

_Amanda wasted no time, tossing the used tool and removed bullet aside, and she swiftly got to work, probing Goat's leg for broken bones. Then she cleaned, stitched, and bandaged the wound after confirming that there was nothing broken. He would have to get an x-ray later, just to make sure, but he would probably be fine with time._

_When Amanda finally finished treating him, her head was swimming, and she felt faint from the pain of her cracked ribs. She got off of Goat shakily and looked over at him with a tremulous smile, kneeling at his side._

_"How you holding up?" she asked, voice quaking. His chest was heaving, but he nodded at her._

_"Well enough," came his reply. She returned his reassuring nod. Then her eyes rolled up in her head and she collapsed._

Tank blinked, coming out of her doze.

"Wow, it's been a while since I've had that dream," she murmured to herself. Rubbing her eyes, she looked around.

She was still in the infirmary, sitting next to Reaper's bed. Sighing, she realized that it was time to wake him again.

He was _not_ going to be happy about this.

Resigned to her fate, Tank reached forward and rested her hand on Reaper's shoulder, shaking gently.

"C'mon, Reaps, time to wake up," she crooned, trying to lessen his temper as much as possible. He groaned, cracked his eyes open, and glared up at her. He looked surprisingly like a wet cat.

"What the fuck, Amanda?" he groused. She smiled at him.

"Pleasant as always," she quipped. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I need to sleep for another ten hours," he griped. "Now lemme go back to bed."

Tank chuckled. "Alright, you do that. I'll see you in another hour or so."

He grumbled, gingerly turned over, and then was silent.

A few moments passed.

Then Reaper flung off the covers, making a mad dash for the bathroom. Alarmed, Tank quickly followed, only to watch as he missed the toilet and threw up all over the bathroom floor. Groaning, Tank went over to take him by the shoulders and keep him from landing face-first in the mess. Her stomach roiled as Reaper heaved again.

It was funny, she absently mused, that she could dig bullets out of people's flesh, stuff somebody's guts back into their body, close arteries to stop bleeding, and sew somebody's skin back together without feeling at all ill; but when faced with the sight, smell, and sound of somebody throwing up, she felt the need to run to the nearest toilet and empty her guts into it.

By the time that Reaper finished, he had almost as much vomit on his shirt as was on the floor. She helped him away from the mess and leaned him against the wall. Then Tank wet a washcloth and set to cleaning off his face and neck. The shirt would have to go.

"Come on, John, let's get those clothes off of you," she prompted. Grimacing at the pain in his head and at the stench, Reaper allowed her to pull his shirt over his head and chuck it into the corner. His pants got dirty in the process, as did his hair, so off went the pants, too.

Seeing Reaper naked was a new thing for Tank, but the evident fact that he was injured and sick made it so that she could push the personal issue of the view to the back of her mind and think about the situation objectively.

"Come on, John," she chided softly, pulling his arm over her shoulders. "You need to get cleaned up."

He groaned as his head throbbed. "I can hear you just fine, Amanda, you don't need to coddle me."

She smiled. "So, if I let you go right now, you'd be able to stand and walk without falling over?"

He didn't reply to that.

"That's what I thought," she mumbled. She guided him around the mess on the floor and helped him step into the shower. "Shower off, would you? There's soap in the dispenser on the wall."

He sighed and did as he was told. She closed the translucent shower door and unthinkingly stepped backward... right into the puddle of vomit on the floor. She shuddered, uttering a sound of disgust, and lifted her foot almost daintily, grimacing as some of it dripped onto the floor with a wet splat.

Then she sighed with resignation and went to get some cleaning supplies.

When she returned a few minutes later, Reaper had started the shower, and she could faintly smell soap under the stench of vomit. She made quick work of the mess on the floor, swabbing the tiles with practiced motions- remnants from her year in the Navy- and hurriedly wiped off her foot. The next thing she did was to make sure the rest of the infirmary floor was clean where she had been walking. Lastly, she absconded with a set of clothes from one of the various lockers around the infirmary and reentered the bathroom just as the water shut off.

She helped Reaper climb out of the shower with some difficulty- he was having trouble focusing, and his balance seemed off- and held him steady as she reached over to the towel rack to pass one of the drying cloths to her boyfriend.

He took it wordlessly and toweled himself off. Tank politely turned her gaze away, though she couldn't help sneaking a glance or two at his nude body. Who could blame her? He was built like Adonis.

"All done?" she asked when she spotted him drying off his hair out of her peripheral vision. His affirmative grunt was his only reply.

She wordlessly handed him the borrowed clothes and turned around again to let him dress. She yawned unexpectedly, and then slapped her cheeks, trying to wake herself up some more. Really, she _needed_ some sleep.

"You should get some sleep, Amanda," came Reaper's voice from behind her. His words were slightly slurred, but his enunciation was better than it had been an hour ago.

"I'll sleep when I'm sure you're well," she returned, yawning again. "Are you done, yet?"

"Yeah," he murmured thickly, fighting down a yawn of his own. Tank hummed and turned back around, slinging his arm over her shoulder.

"How's the head?" she asked as they maneuvered out of the bathroom and back out into the infirmary. She sat him down on the side of his cot as he gave an uncomfortable grunt.

"Don't ask, it just makes it worse," he groused. Tank hummed knowingly.

"Then just sleep," she crooned softly. He gingerly swung his legs up and reclined while she covered him with the blanket. "I'll wake you in an hour or so, and after that, if you wake without any trouble, I can let you go for two hours."

"Joy," he muttered. There was only a touch of sarcasm in his voice. She smiled.

"Love you," she whispered. He sighed, his eyelids already drooping.

"Love you, too," he breathed. Then he was gone, departed for the world of dreams.

Tank heaved a sigh, forced back a yawn, and made herself comfortable in her chair again. It would be a while yet before she could pull one of the other guys in to relieve her so that she could sleep.

Grimacing, Tank resigned herself to a long few hours.

* * *

_**2041 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 0800 hours**_

Tank sighed and rubbed her eyes, fighting back a yawn. She had been up all night with Reaper in order to wake him periodically to ensure that he didn't slip into a coma. He had woken without much trouble each time, though he had been increasingly irritable and had thrown up twice more. She, however, had gotten no real sleep at all.

Twenty-eight hours without sleep plus pissed-off Tank equaled bad news for the first person to speak to her.

Unfortunately for Pug, he was the one to take the brunt of her frustration when he came in to check on her and Reaper at around 0730 hours. Tank had blown up at him, ranting about irresponsible COs and head injuries and vomiting boyfriends for almost a half-hour before she finally ranted herself out. Then she had sighed and sagged, deflated and weary, into the chair at Reaper's bedside, her tirade exhausted.

Two pairs of eyes stared at her, one sympathetic and the other unfocused and confused.

"Sorry, Pug," Tank murmured after several long moments of silence. "Sarge just irritates me to no end, sometimes."

Pug smiled at her ruefully. "Sarge doesn't know his own strength, at times," he admitted. "Usually he doesn't hit so hard, though."

"I know," Tank concurred. "But he usually doesn't get that fucking _careless_ unless he's pissed at somebody or something."

Pug shrugged, unable to help her. "I don't know what it is."

"Does Sarge ever get real stressed before missions?" Tank gasped, turning to Reaper. Guilt was painted all over her features.

"I'm sorry!" she exclaimed quietly. "Did I wake you up?"

Reaper grunted. "My fucking _head_ woke me up, not you," he rumbled. "Though your tirade didn't really help, any."

Tank grimaced.

"Sorry," she murmured, truly remorseful. Behind her, Pug mimed being gagged. Tank saw this in the reflective surface of the cart. She turned back to Pug with a too-sweet look on her face. He had immediately stopped as soon as she began to move, and looked at her, the perfect picture of innocence.

"Pug?"

"Yes?"

"Don't make fun of me behind my back unless you want a knife shoved up your fucking _ass,_" Tank threatened. She smiled the whole while, but it was frosty.

Pug affected a puppy-dog look, to which Tank cringed. "Ah, but you are forgetting one thing, Behälter."

Tank raised a wary brow. "What's that?"

Pug gave her a grin that was scary in how cold it really was. "I am German," he explained. "And I _own_ you in knife fighting."

Tank groaned. "Damn, you got me there."

Pug gave her a warm smile, this time. "Of course!"

They chuckled together until Sarge suddenly walked in, looking a bit grim. Tank and Pug fell silent, and the trio's gazes landed on their CO.

"Sarge?" Tank asked, standing up and saluting briefly. "What's up?"

"We've got a mission," Sarge explained. Tank's blood ran cold, while she heard Pug hiss an excited 'Yes!' behind her.

"And you want to know whether or not Reaper's in any shape to take it," Tank deduced. Sarge's look told her that she was right.

Tank shook her head. "Sorry, Sarge, but I can't give him a clean bill of health. He's been throwing up for most of the night, and he still can't see straight."

"Can too," Reaper protested behind her. Tank stiffened, and then she whirled furiously on Reaper.

"You are _not_ going on that mission!" she ordered vehemently. "And don't you fucking _dare_ say you are, 'cause I just lost a whole _eight_ fucking hours of sleep and _two_ fucking hours of training 'cause I was looking after you!"

"Reaper." Sarge's voice silenced Tank, and she stood there, glowering, as Sarge continued to address Reaper. "Can you shoot straight and walk silently?"

"I think so, sir," Reaper replied. Tank bristled fiercely, but said nothing.

"Good," Sarge said. "Suit up, then. You, too, Pug. Tank, you're needed in the locker room for stat checks."

"Yessir," Tank snarled, and then snapped a harsh salute before storming irately from the room. The three men watched her leave for a second before Sarge turned to them.

"What's eating _her?_"

Reaper and Pug exchanged glances and sighed.

Meanwhile, Tank had all but flown down the stairs, still inwardly raging, to burst into the locker room, where the rest of the team was gathered.

"Everybody. Physicals. _Now,_" she snarled, stalking over to the desk. She almost broke the computer when she jammed her thumb against the 'on' switch, and waited impatiently while it booted up and the team gathered around her.

"What's up?" asked Hellraiser, peering concernedly into Tank's face. She gnashed her teeth.

"_Reaper_ has lost his fucking _mind_, that's what!" she ranted, and grabbed her stethoscope from its case nearby. "He's got a concussion, can't even fucking _see_ straight, and he _says_ that he's fine to go on this fucking _mission!_ And Sarge is _fucking_ _letting him!_ Now get on the fucking _table!_"

Hellraiser swallowed, and apprehensively hopped onto the examination table. Tank's hands, however, were as gentle as always as she checked him for abnormalities, even though she trembled faintly with the force of her fury.

The examinations went by quietly through Hellraiser, Portman, Mac, Destroyer, Brian, and Pug, when he finally joined them. Tank glared venomously at Sarge when she examined him, but she flat-out refused to even check Reaper when he staggered into the room.

"Fuck, no!" she exclaimed when he clambered onto the examination table, shirtless, in his basketball shorts. He glared at her.

"Why the fuck not?" he asked. Tank's expression contorted with her wrath, and she slammed the stethoscope viciously against the metal slab.

"_Because you have a fucking concussion!_" she snarled. "I can't give you a clean bill of health when I _know_ you can't even fucking _see straight! _It would be an irresponsible neglection of duty if I allowed you to even leave this base!"

Reaper growled at her as the rest of the team just watched in silence. This was between the two of them.

"I already _told_ you, I'm fine!" he said through gritted teeth. "And I'm _going_ on this fucking mission, whether you give me a clean bill of health or not."

There was a tense silence for several long moments as the two of them glowered at each other, neither willing to back down or compromise.

"Say you go out there and get yourself fucking shot," Tank finally hissed to hide the nervous fluttering in the pit of her stomach. "Where the hell does that leave you? Hmm?" She backed away a few feet, and spread her arms, inviting an answer.

"'Cause I'm not gonna help you if you get hurt from sheer _stupidity_," she threatened, voice low and poisonous. "In fact, I'll kill you myself, especially if one of the rest of us gets hurt or killed because of your shortcomings."

Reaper scoffed. "I'll be fine, if that's what you're saying."

"Don't be vain!" Tank spat, her eyes blazing. "What you're trying to do is sheer idiocy! Anyone in their _right mind_ could see that!"

Reaper glared back at her, his gaze slightly unfocused. The bruise on his face stood out starkly against his otherwise too-pale skin, which was just barely glazed with sweat.

The team exchanged glances, unnoticed by the quarreling pair. Tank had a point. They could clearly see that Reaper was definitely _not_ as well as he claimed to be.

"This ain't gonna end well," Destroyer whispered to Brian, who nodded somberly, a nervous smile on his lips.

"I'm going," Reaper growled, heedless of the exchange going on a few meters away. "And if I get shot up, then you can just stand there and say you told me so."

Tank's eyes snapped with righteous anger. "Don't be an _idiot_, John!" she hissed. "If you go in this condition, you won't fucking make it out _alive!_"

"Don't lecture _me_ about _idiocy!_" Reaper snapped, his remaining patience finally running out.

That hit Tank like a shotgun blast to the gut.

Dead silence reigned in the room for a long moment as Tank stared at him in shock, anger, and hurt. Then she finally spun away from him, hunching over the computer. Her whole body visibly quaked with her emotions.

"Go suit up." Her voice was quiet, barely over a whisper. The team blinked, and Brian was the one to venture a question.

"You're not going to examine him?" he asked.

"I already _know_ his fucking condition!" Tank barked. "All of you, get the _fuck_ over to your lockers and suit the _fuck __up!_ _Now!_"

Because, really, she was terrified that Reaper was going to get killed due to his injury. She couldn't face the squad when she felt like she would burst into silent tears from the force of her anger and her all-damning fear.

She didn't turn around as they trooped over to the lockers. Her fists remained, clenched and white-knuckled, on top of the desk. Reaper didn't even look back at her as he stormed shakily over to his station and began to suit up.

It was only after they filed out of the room again that Tank managed to compose herself and rouse herself to motion. She hurriedly entered her own stats into the computer, and then saved the documents before shutting the device down. Then she dashed over to her station and pulled on her gear.

She was out the door in less than five minutes, grabbing her sniper rifle, medical pouch, and knives on her way out. Sarge was waiting for her in the atrium.

"Tank," he said. His voice was almost gentle. Tank just snarled silently and pushed past him out the door to where the chopper was waiting on the landing pad.

"Just do your fucking job, Sarge," she said, "and stay out of my fucking _way._"

She didn't let on how she hated the way that her voice was thick with tears that she wouldn't shed.

Sarge followed her silently.

When they boarded the chopper, Tank grabbed her assault rifle down from the wall, distantly hearing it ID her. She sat down in the far back of the chopper, as far away from any of them as she could.

Tank pointedly ignored Reaper where he sat on the opposite end of the craft, demeanor frosty as he clipped a magazine into his assault rifle. The chopper took off as Tank did the same.

Once they were in the air, Sarge took the stage for their briefing. Tank listened as intently as she could, while her teammates exchanged glances.

It was going to be a long, _long_ flight.

* * *

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Doom or any of its characters, blah, blah, blah... Yeah, yeah, you know the drill by now._

_I realize that Tank could probably be punished for bad-mouthing her superior officer, I really do. But Sarge is in an understanding mood... Plus, he wouldn't want to put one of his soldiers on the sidelines before a "game", I'd imagine._

_Pleased sigh. I'm feeling rather pleased with myself, right now. I liked how the Christmas Day Massacre scene came out. I realize that this flashback didn't have a distinct time frame dictated in it, but if you have any questions about it, I'd like to direct you back to chapter 9 of this story... And yes, there is a reason why there wasn't a page-break between the flashback and the scene where Reaper tossed his cookies all over the bathroom floor. That is because the flashback was a **dream sequence.**_

_And yay for Tank and Reaper's first big fight as a couple. I'd like to make a note on this: Relationships aren't perfect because people aren't perfect, and Tank and Reaper are far from perfect. Miscommunications abound. Even the best of relationships have their rocky parts, some moreso than others. The quality of a relationship depends on how well it holds up through those rough patches. Not to mention that if people get sleep-deprived, they tend to get moody, and the littlest things tend to get blown out of proportion. Reaper has a concussion, and both he and Tank are sleep-deprived and irritable, and the trigger for this argument wasn't some "little thing"- Tank sees the situation as putting Reaper's life at risk (well, moreso than usual) because he's not in top condition, and she's worried. Miscommunications have happened (a major flaw in any type of human communication), things have escalated between them, and now they're on the rocks._

_Needless to say, Tank and Reaper's relationship is not going to be peaches-and-cream all the time._

_Okay, I think that that's all I've got to say about the chapter._

_Huge thanks to **JayDee** and **Steff7** for reviewing chapter 21. You guys are awesome! Hugs to you both._

_Next chapter will be posted 12-7-09._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	23. 2041 AD Venezuela 1100 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
****By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_On the ground, I lay/ Motionless, in pain/ I can see my life/ Flashing before my eyes...__"  
--Three Days Grace, 'Time of Dying'_

_**Chapter 22.**_

* * *

_**2041 A.D. - Mountains East of Pozo Azul, Venezuela - 1100 hours**_

It was snowing. In _September_.

How much more motherfucking _backwards_ could this goddamn country _get?_

That was one of the many furious thoughts that ran through Tank's head as she crouched behind a boulder, her back pressed to the cold stone. To her right, Brian peered around his own cover before sprinting forward, his assault rifle in hand. He got to his next spot, and then nodded to Tank with a nervously loopy grin.

Tank returned the nod with frosty concentration, all business, and set her assault rifle down before slipping the sniper rifle off of her back. Reaching into one of her many vest pockets, Tank pulled out the specially-made silencer that had come with the rifle, and quickly attached it.

Then she cautiously got to her feet and peeked over the top of the boulder.

Tank swore silently as she immediately had to duck back down to avoid being seen. Thankfully, the area where she was hiding was shadowed. However, she didn't put any stock into that, seeing as a trained eye could easily spot her, simply from the geographical issues. She waited a few seconds.

Then she stuck her head out again.

Her targets were looking away. It was, apparently, the changing of the guard. Tank quickly braced her rifle on top of the boulder, which was about level with her shoulder, and sighted down the scope for the first of her four current targets.

To Tank's morbid pleasure, two of the guards were standing next to each other, perfectly lined up so that she could take one shot and get both of them.

A few quick calculations flashed through Tank's mind. She adjusted her aim accordingly, and then she fired. Her rifle kicked and gave a muffled cough. The effects, however, were just as devastating as her test rounds had shown them to be.

The closer man's chest practically exploded as the bullet tore through him, while the second man's head popped like an overripe melon tends to when hit with a sledgehammer.

Tank wasted no time in picking off her other two shocked and terrified targets. By the time she finished, Brian was staring at her openly. Tank glanced at him as she removed her silencer from her rifle again and slung it into place across her back.

"What?" Tank asked with a slight frown.

"How the fucking hell did you _do_ that?" Brian gasped, slack-jawed. Tank shrugged, and turned her comm back on.

"Well, when your companions suddenly explode next to you, you tend to get showered in blood and guts," she explained, as calmly as if she was commenting on the weather. "You can guess that it would have the effect of shocking a person into a standstill. This, of course, makes them sitting ducks, and you, of course, have to capitalize."

"_Cut the comm chatter, Tank,_" Sarge told her through the comm in her ear. Tank rolled her eyes.

"You're good to go for the next five minutes, Sarge," she replied. "Get the fuck in there and take 'em out before they notice that the guards haven't reported in."

"_Roger that,_" Sarge said. A second later, Tank was able to make out the forms of Sarge, Hellraiser, Mac, Destroyer, and Pug heading into the base, guns out and ready.

"_Damn, Tank!_" Hellraiser whispered as she saw him enter the base. "_Are you using a sniper rifle or a fucking cannon?_"

Tank chuckled, almost hysterical with the morbid humor. "Sometimes I can't tell the difference."

She watched as Reaper brought up the rear, his movements smooth and well-coordinated.

At least, they would seem so to the untrained eye.

Tank could pick out, even from the distance she was at, the way that he occasionally stumbled. Inwardly she swore at him, still fuming from their argument earlier.

_Really,_ she mused, _I could have taken most of what he could throw at me. But to throw my concern back in my face like that and call me an idiot?_

She shook her head, getting thoughts of him out of her mind, and turned her angry brandy-brown gaze to her surroundings.

Tank could hear the quiet reports of her squadmates as they filed through the complex, setting bombs and retrieving information. It was not until almost a half-hour had passed that she heard and saw something that didn't set well with her.

"Sarge," she whispered into her comm. All the other comm chatter immediately stopped, and Tank could hear them halt in their motions.

Tank's eyes fixed on the Humvee coming up the mountain trail.

"Sarge, we have a vehicle coming up the path," she said quietly.

"_Can you take 'em out?_" Sarge asked. Tank grimaced.

"Negative," she replied. "How close are you guys to finishing?"

"_We still have another ten minutes left of downloading to do._" It was Goat, this time.

"_And we still have two charges to set._" Hellraiser. "_It'll take Pug and me about five minutes._"

"You've got three," Tank said. Then she looked over at Brian. "Brian."

Brian turned in her direction, awaiting instruction.

"We're going to do as much damage as we possibly can," Tank said, her voice grim. "As soon as I duck out from behind this boulder, they're going to see me and unload a shitload of bullets."

Tank unhooked her sub-machine gun from its strap on her thigh, and got out some of the special grenades that went with it. Glancing around, she ran over to Brian's position, hunched over to avoid being seen.

She made it without incident, and handed Brian the gun and grenades.

"Do you know how to use this thing?" Tank asked. Brian looked at the gun. "That under-slung grenade launcher has an effective range of about fifteen feet. You pop it, lock it, and fire it. Don't hesitate."

Brian nodded, and Tank could see that he understood.

"Good." Tank glanced around the boulder, seeing the truck coming to a stop.

"I'm going to draw their fire," Tank whispered. "You're going to sneak around, get in range, and blow those motherfuckers straight to hell like you're Michael the archangel."

"Extreme prejudice?" Brian asked. A wicked smile was curling his lips. Tank echoed the smirk.

"Extreme prejudice, hard-ass bitchin' Marine style."

Brian chuckled evilly. "Hell hath no fury."

"Then give 'em the fury of a woman scorned," Tank returned distractedly, and then peered out behind the boulder before leaving cover. She kept low to the ground until she was almost thirty feet away from Brian.

Then Tank straightened, braced the stock of her assault rifle against the crook of her shoulder, and unloaded almost a half a clip into the Venezuelan mercenaries who had just embarked from the truck.

They immediately returned fire.

"Contact!" Tank yelled into her comm, firing in quick bursts as she ran for cover. She hissed as a bullet clipped her cheek, but managed to throw herself prone behind a low overhang, listening as projectiles whizzed over her head. After a second, she stuck her rifle up and fired almost-blindly.

A single, agonized scream was her reward.

"Jumper, you'd better get the fuck over there!" Tank snarled. "Or you'll be the first one I haunt after they blow me full of more fucking holes than Swiss cheese!"

Brian, newly Christened as 'Jumper', didn't reply.

Tank gritted her teeth. She couldn't stay where she was, or she would get killed. Tank glanced around, spotting a decent-sized boulder about twenty-five feet at one o'clock.

"Fuck!" she grumbled. Then she stuck her rifle up over the overhang again and unloaded the rest of her clip into the mercenaries. When it clicked empty, she brought it back down and hurriedly changed her magazine out for a fresh one.

Tank stuck her gun out again and unloaded.

The opposing gunfire lightened up for a second, and Tank used the opportunity to scramble to her feet, still firing, and make a mad dash for the boulder. She was about halfway there when she felt something impact her left leg.

Tank stumbled, but she managed to get her leg underneath her again with an animalistic growl, and took the last few remaining leaps with a ragged shout building on her lips. When at last she hurled herself to the ground behind her new cover, she had sweat running down her face from the agony that was also mounting in her leg.

Breathing heavily through clenched teeth, Tank got back into the firefight with renewed vigor, leaning around the boulder and sending a hail of gunfire into the enemy ranks.

"Shit! Jumper, what the fuck is taking you so goddamned long?!" Tank screamed into the comm.

"_I'm almost in range,_" Jumper replied, voice deceptively calm. "_A few of them spotted me. They're unloading on my position, but I think if they get taken out I should be able to make it._"

"Fuck," Tank growled. Then she leaned out again. A bullet ricocheted off of the boulder, drawing a thin line of red across her forehead. Her sharp eyes immediately spotted the troublesome unit that Jumper had mentioned.

They were quickly disposed of.

However, before Tank could pull back, she felt an impact on her left shoulder.

She fell back with a ragged cry of mixed shock and pain.

It spun her around, dazed her, and left her lying there, behind her cover, unable to breathe or think for several seconds as she stared up at the grey sky.

After a long time, the ringing in Tank's ears faded, and she blinked slowly, vaguely wondering why everything was so blurry. Then she sucked in a breath, and the events of the past few minutes came rushing back to her. Tank realized that the gunfire had stopped, and that she could now hear the crackle and roar of flames.

Panting, Tank struggled with her strangely unresponsive body, and managed to roll onto her stomach. A few painful tugs with her right arm allowed her to see out from behind the boulder.

Jumper had done his job well.

The mercenaries' truck had been reduced to a flaming wreck, and a second grenade had taken out the rest of the offenders. Tank could see that Jumper was currently moving among the bodies, shooting into them to make sure that they were dead.

Sarge was yelling into Tank's ear for a report, but she couldn't get the breath to give him one.

"_Enemy reinforcements have been neutralized,_" Tank heard Jumper convey. "_I can't see Tank anywhere._"

"_Why the fuck not?!_" It was Sarge again. Tank could hear the rest of the squad going about their jobs, but she couldn't tell if they were listening or not with the strangely muted way that she was hearing things.

"_Lost track of her during the firefight,_" Jumper reported. "_Last communication received was approximately twenty seconds ago. She hasn't reported in since._"

Tank heard someone hiss something, but she couldn't hear well enough to tell who it was or what they said.

"_What was her last communication?_"

Tank could hear Jumper's hesitation. "_She screamed, sir._"

Tank wanted to hail them on the comms, tell them that she was fine, but she couldn't breathe steadily enough to do so. Then Tank realized why she couldn't inhale very well.

Grunting, she heaved herself up with her right arm into a sitting position, and leaned herself against the boulder, stretching her legs out in front of her. Her breathing immediately eased, and she drew a deep one before she reported in.

"Sarge," she said. She absently noticed that her voice was raspy. Her right arm absently came up to grip her left shoulder.

"_Tank!_" Sarge's voice was sharp. "_Where the fuck are you?!_"

Tank glanced around. "I'm about thirty meters from the front entrance of the base," she croaked, her breathing heavy. "Behind a boulder. It's all shot up, shouldn't be hard to find."

Tank groaned, and glanced down at her leg when it gave a blazing throb. There was a bullet hole in her black jumpsuit, and deoxygenated blood, a dull red color, was streaming out of it.

"Jumper, come get me," she ordered.

"_Roger,_" Jumper affirmed.

"_Tank, what's your status?_" demanded Sarge.

"I've got a hole in my left calf," Tank replied, hissing when her shoulder also gave a throb. "Losing blood fast. I can't move my left arm. Got hit in the shoulder."

She glanced at the aforementioned spot. "My flak vest stopped it, luckily," she reported. "Doesn't feel like anything's broken. Just bruised and temporarily paralyzed." She paused. "Possibly dislocated."

Tank groaned again, and leaned her head back against the boulder. A wave of dizzy weariness swept over her.

"Just get the fuck done with what you have to do," she grunted. "Dunno 'bout you, but I wanna get the fuck home."

"_Did the shot hit an artery?_" This time it was Goat who spoke. Tank sighed.

"No," she mumbled. "Hit some veins. It's just bleeding kinda badly."

She glanced at it again, judged the angle of the entry wound. "Looks like it was a ricochet. Should be easy to treat, if a little painful."

"What do you need me to do?" Jumper had arrived. The young man knelt in front of Tank.

"Get my pouch off of me," Tank instructed. "Just set it on the ground, there."

Jumper did as he was told, and opened the top of the pouch. Tank's eyes immediately spotted a tourniquet sitting on top of the other supplies, exactly how she had arranged it.

"Get that tourniquet." Jumper picked it up and straightened it out. "Tie it as tightly as you can around my lower thigh. Don't be afraid to tie it too tightly, we want to staunch the blood flow."

Tank's hazy mind almost didn't register it as Jumper tied the tourniquet around her thigh two inches above her knee, but she did hiss when she felt her leg begin to tingle with the pins-and-needles sensation that came with loss of circulation.

"Sarge," Jumper said uneasily into his comm when Tank's head lolled wearily back against the boulder. "Sarge, we need to get her out of here, fast. She's losing too much blood."

Tank growled.

"No I'm not," she stubbornly protested. "Now get me the fucking forceps, I need to get the bullet out."

Jumper did as he was told, though Tank could see that the younger soldier held some reservations about it. Tank unwrapped the sterile tool in question, hearing the plastic crackle over the sensitive comm unit in her ear. Then, steadying herself with a breath, Tank looked at Jumper again.

"I need you to fold my leg up," Tank instructed slowly, "so that I can reach my calf. Then I need you to roll my pants leg up, sit on my foot, and hold my knee so that my leg stays still. Understand?"

Jumper swallowed, and nodded with a shaky smile, doing as Tank told him. Tank bit back a yell as fire ran up her leg. By the time that Jumper had it in position and immobilized, Tank was panting from the pain.

"_Tank?_"

Tank froze briefly. It was Reaper.

"What do you want?" she finally groaned. "I'm trying to save my fucking life, here."

There was a pause. "_Sorry,_" he eventually groused. "_I'll leave you be._"

"_Thank_ you for shutting the fuck up," Tank snarled. Then she looked over at Jumper. "Hold it steady, boy."

Jumper nodded, his brow creased in determination and a reassuring smile upon his lips. Tank took several deep breaths, and swallowed a couple of times to steady herself.

Then she inserted the forceps directly into her wound.

She couldn't hold back the pained yelp that escaped her lips, but she forged on with a shaking hand, nonetheless. By the time that she finally found the bullet, Tank's vision was swimming and she was working mainly by touch.

Panting heavily, Tank pried the forceps open and worked the head around the bullet. The motions sent sparks dancing across her vision. Tank felt her grip on the forceps weakening, her arm losing its strength. Growling, Tank bit into her cheek.

She tasted blood, but the fresh pain helped sharpen her focus, and she managed to clamp the forceps' locking mechanism down before she leaned back against the boulder for a breather. Wryly, she looked over at the dark blur that she distinguished as Jumper.

"You know," Tank slurred. "This is my third big mission, and the second time I've been wounded."

Tank heard and vaguely felt Jumper chuckle slightly.

"You must have bad luck, then," the younger soldier joked, voice trembling slightly. Tank groaned.

"Yeah," she gritted out. "This is going to hurt a whole fucking _lot_. Hold on tight, kid."

The blur that was Jumper nodded, and Tank vaguely felt him tighten his grip. Then Tank slowly and carefully began to withdraw the forceps. A rush of blood gushed over her hand, and Tank gave a brief yowl of agony.

The bullet came free with a quiet tearing sound.

Tank swooned momentarily, her vision briefly going dark.

Tank heard Jumper groan over the sound of her ragged breathing. Blinking rapidly, Tank was able to clear her vision enough to see the young man fairly clearly.

Jumper was positively green.

Tank grimaced. "Are you gonna be okay?"

Jumper shook his head mutely.

Tank waved her hand vaguely off to her right, ignoring the fact that she was brandishing forceps holding a bullet covered with her own blood and muscle tissue.

"Go throw up and get it over with," she drawled.

Jumper took off so swiftly that he jostled Tank's leg. Tank yelped in surprise and pain, and then groaned and shook her head to ward off the sleepiness that came with her blood loss. Taking a shaking breath, Tank tuned out the sounds of Jumper's retching, dropped the forceps, and dragged her pouch over to her.

Tank dug around in the bag for a second before she was able to find the needle and surgical thread that she had purchased the last time she stocked up on medical supplies. Then she knotted the thread with some difficulty and pushed it through the eye of the needle.

Sticking the needle between her teeth, Tank pulled out one of the gauze pads, a water bottle, and the bottle of disinfectant hydrogen peroxide that Simmons had given her.

Distantly, she heard Sarge say that they were leaving the base.

"Better fucking hurry," she growled to herself around the needle. A second later, she heard footsteps crunching on gravel and snow. They were out, and they were headed toward her and Jumper's position.

By this time, Tank was shivering, a sensation of cold creeping up on her. Her chest heaved as though she had run a mile; she swallowed the blood that had welled in her mouth from biting her cheek.

Blood dripped into her eyes from a cut on her forehead. Tank blinked it away, and uncapped the bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Then, uncaring of how much she used, Tank's trembling hand dumped some of the stuff over her wound.

She howled through clenched teeth.

"_Holy mother-ass-fucking shitburgers from hell!_" she yelled. Tank wheezed through the pain, curling defensively around her leg.

Then two hands were on either shoulder, steadying her and lending her strength.

Tank yowled again as her tender left shoulder was touched, and instinctively recoiled, jerking away from the person. Their hands returned, though, bracing her on her stomach and back. It was several seconds before she could look up and blink away the haze over her vision to see who was helping her.

Pug was bracing her on her right side, and Goat had her supported from her left.

"Is everyone alright?" Tank demanded shakily. "Is anyone else wounded?"

"No," Goat responded. "Everyone else is fine."

"Come on, Tank," Pug murmured to her. "We need to move."

Tank didn't hear him, however, her eyes drifting over all the gathered people. Goat, Pug, Sarge, Mac, and Destroyer had set up a defensive circle around her. Jumper had returned, also, looking better if somewhat pale. The only one missing was Reaper.

"Where's Reaper?" Tank asked. She hated the way her voice quaked. "Where is he?"

"He's right over there," Pug said, glancing over his shoulder. Tank followed his gaze, and was barely able to make out the top of Reaper's head.

So that was why she hadn't been able to see him.

Tank took a trembling inhalation, filling her lungs as much as she could. She absently recapped the peroxide. "Can't move 'til I stitch it up. Won't take long."

She got to work, and missed the glance and nod exchanged between Goat and Sarge as she dumped some of the water from her canteen over the bullet hole. The pain wasn't as excruciating, this time, so all that escaped her clenched teeth was a faint hiss.

Once that was done, Tank unwrapped the gauze pad and pressed it to her wound, soaking up the remaining blood and water that had lingered. Then she dropped it to the ground, grabbed the needle from her teeth, and began to sew.

Tank swore she heard her jaw crack, she was clenching her teeth so hard.

She struggled to tie off the first stitch after she pulled the skin together. After she did that, she leaned heavily into Goat. Tank felt as though she could have blacked out right there, but she fought it off and moved to start the second stitch.

Goat moved. Then Tank's mouth was pried open and something soft and foul-tasting was inserted in between her teeth. She blinked blearily over at him, to see that he had provided a fold of his sleeve for her to bite down on instead of her tongue or cheek.

Tank gazed at him gratefully, and then looked back down at her leg.

The second stitch was more difficult than the first, due to the fact that Tank's hand shook horribly as she tried to make the stitch. She almost couldn't tie the knot due to the violent trembling.

Two down. One to go.

Tank was thankful that the bullet hole had been relatively small. It meant that there would be fewer stitches. Less pain.

Still, she had to have Pug brace her arm for her as she made the final stitch. In the end, she only managed to tie the knot in it before her strength evaporated and her arm went limp. She was still conscious, though.

"Pug," she rasped, her voice faint. Pug looked up at her, dead serious. "Cut the thread. Pack it all into my pouch. Then I want you to sling it across my chest so that it's against my right hip. The strap should be in the crook of my neck."

It only took Pug thirty seconds to do as she had ordered.

"Goat?" Tank asked. Goat tightened his grip on her in acknowledgement. "How's my shoulder? Dislocated?"

"Yes," Goat replied. Tank groaned faintly.

"Reset it," she ordered. "Quick."

She felt Goat move more than she felt him take a hold of her arm. Pug slipped the medical pouch over her head before he wrapped his arms around her, pinning Tank's right arm to her side. Tank took a deep breath and turned her face into Pug's vest, taking one of the flaps of his multiple pockets in between her teeth.

A second later, she grunted when she felt a brief, excruciating pain as Goat pulled, twisted, and pushed on her arm.

Then it popped back into place with a sickening sound, and feeling rushed back into it. Tank groaned, and swooned against Pug, her vision skewing wildly.

She was distantly aware of somebody removing the tourniquet from her leg, sending another wave of pins and needles shooting down from her knee to her foot, but she was too spent to snap at them.

"Come on, Tank," she vaguely heard Pug say. "Come on. Stay awake. You can pass out once we get to the evac point. Come on, wake up."

Tank felt someone tapping her face, and weakly opened her eyes to see Pug and Goat leaning over her.

Her breathing was rapid and shallow as she grumbled a weak "Fuck waking up", but roused herself with some difficulty and allowed them to draw her arms across their shoulders.

Honestly. They made picking her up seem easy.

The trip down the mountain was probably the longest, most painful hike of Tank's life, even though she had two tall, strong, badass Marines to lean on. The group walked where there was no path, spreading out in case someone decided to ambush them and chuck a grenade at them. Tank limped along as best she could between Goat and Pug as they entered the forest, feet crunching on snow.

By the time that they got to the clearing that was their evac point, Tank's vision was edged in black and she could no longer hold her head up. All she focused on was setting one foot in front of the other.

The chopper hadn't arrived, yet, so Goat and Pug set her down to lean against the trunk of a broad tree. Then Goat went to join the rest of the team in setting up a perimeter while Pug stayed with Tank.

"Tank," Pug called her, tapping her cheek again. Tank struggled to keep her eyes open; her eyelids felt as though they weighed four tons.

"What?" she whispered weakly. Tank saw Pug hold something up, something she dimly recognized as a canteen.

"Come on, take a drink. It's Powerade," Pug instructed. Tank groaned faintly, but did as she was told. Pug tipped the canteen to her lips. Tank almost moaned with ecstasy as liquid flowed into her parched mouth, but she held it back in favor of drinking.

After she had downed a few sips, she wearily pulled away. Some of the liquid splashed down her chin, taking some of the blood on her face to soak into the collar of her jumpsuit.

Pug took the hint.

The drink had refreshed Tank, and now she looked around, a little more alert than before.

"Where are we?" she asked faintly. Pug blinked.

"You don't know?" he countered. Tank stared at him.

"Where are we?" she repeated. Pug's brow furrowed, and he answered her as he pulled off his glove and held the back of his hand to her cheek and forehead.

"We're at the evac point." The corners of his eyes crinkled as he frowned. "You're cold."

Tank took a deep breath.

"Yeah." It came out a weak, quaking sigh. "Been cold a while."

He swore softly in German. Tank distantly watched him fumble with the pouch at his hip.

"Don't worry, Pug," she said softly. He looked back up at her, his hands stilling. "'S just from the blood loss. I'll be fine after a while."

Pug stared at her for a long moment. Then he nodded solemnly and got to his feet.

"Will you be alright by yourself?" he asked her gently. Tank managed a weak nod.

"Go help the others."

She watched hazily as Pug moved off to join the rest of the team in watching the perimeter. She weakly managed to get her own assault rifle and rest it across her lap, her hand holding it loosely and her finger hovering over the trigger. It seemed like the gun weighed eighty pounds more than it really did.

It was several minutes before Tank heard the explosion, and it took her several seconds longer to register what it was. However, none of the other Marines seemed disturbed by the blast, so Tank settled for leaning back against the tree trunk and listening for anything that might indicate an enemy approach.

The time passed slowly. Tank felt herself beginning to nod off, and knocked her head backwards against the tree trunk. The pain woke her up, almost as quickly as a shot of caffeine would. It seemed that it took hours until she finally heard the dull, repetitive thud of chopper blades, but in reality, only a few minutes had passed.

Then she watched, feeling rather detached, as a shape removed itself from the perimeter and headed over to her.

She dimly recollected that he was Reaper.

Tank was too tired and cold to muster any of her earlier anger at him, so she just eyed him as he walked up to her and gingerly crouched in front of her.

"Chopper's here," he told her quietly in response to her inquiring look. "You don't look like you can stand on your own."

Tank was silent, too drained to reply with the blistering comeback that she had fleetingly formulated. She just stared at him, fighting against her current frailty.

Reaper sighed. "Come on, Tank. On your feet."

Tank finally remembered how to speak. "You hurt me."

Reaper stiffened. "How so?"

"You called me stupid," she whispered, looking at him blankly with half-lidded eyes.

Her expression was bland, unable to muster the energy to change it. Her shoulders were slumped. Her arms rested, all but limp, at her sides, and her head lolled back against the tree in an almost drunken fashion. Tank's whole body was still, having passed the shivering stage.

She swallowed to wet her throat.

There was silence for a few seconds as they stared at each other. Tank's barely-aware mind could detect remorse in Reaper's eyes and posture.

"Still love you," she whispered. "Don't want you getting killed."

Reaper laid his hand on her cheek, then frowned and pressed his fingers to her jugular. Then he swore and stooped, sliding his arms behind her back and underneath her knees.

"Sarge, she's slipping into shock." Tank heard his voice distantly, but it was as though she was listening to him through an old radio. She groaned faintly as he lifted her and began to head to the landing vehicle.

"_Get her on the chopper._" It was Sarge, his voice tinny over the comms. Tank paid him no mind, though, feeling blackness creeping up on her.

"John," she whispered. He glanced down at her. She let her head come to rest against his shoulder.

"Come on, Tank, keep talking," Reaper coaxed gently. "What're you gonna say?"

Tank managed to take a deep breath, then swallowed again. Her eyelids drooped.

"Sorry," she breathed. Reaper swore, and shook her slightly. She grunted with some pain as her leg was jostled, but it woke her up a little.

"What're you sorry for?" Reaper asked. Tank was vaguely aware of her surroundings growing dark. At first she thought she was losing consciousness, but then she saw a light blinking next to Reaper's head.

They were in the chopper.

"For," Tank began, then inhaled and continued with a sigh, "for mothering you."

"That?" Reaper's voice was full of forced lightness, aside from his blatant worry. "That's what you're apologizing for?"

Tank blinked blearily up at him.

"How's your head?" she breathed.

"Better than it was." His voice sounded faraway.

"Good," she said as loudly as she could. Tank wasn't sure that he even heard her.

She felt him lay her down on something, and then watched him turn away, grabbing various items that she couldn't identify. She was vaguely aware of the rest of the squad coming in, looking down at her with varying degrees of worry, but she couldn't hear what they were saying over the sound of her shallow, gasping breaths.

She kept her eyes on Reaper.

He was saying something, looking at someplace over Tank's head. She couldn't tell what her boyfriend was saying. Her hearing had gone silent. She just watched him, trying to memorize his face.

She watched him as he strapped something to her face. A second later, an unfamiliar scent filled Tank's nostrils. A dim recollection told her that there was now an oxygen mask covering her nose and mouth.

Something grabbed her arm as her tactile awareness began to fade. There was a crushing pressure on her upper arm, then a pricking sensation in the crook of her elbow. Tank saw Reaper raise something over her head and hang it on a peg on the wall. Then all tactile sensations faded, and Tank felt numbness spread through her body.

All there was then was Reaper's face as he stared down at her. Tank could see his lips moving, but she couldn't hear anything of what he was saying. Was he even talking?

She just watched him.

Everything began to grow dim. Tank didn't know why. She just knew that she felt very, very tired. She could feel this weariness in her very bones, and all she wanted to do was sleep.

A little, nagging voice in the back of her mind told her that it would be a bad idea to go to sleep. It sounded vaguely like Tank's mother.

"Why?" she asked it. Her lips barely moved. She didn't have the strength to do much more.

_Because if you go to sleep, you won't wake up again_, it whispered.

"How's that bad?" she asked dazedly. "Could sleep for a long time. Feel better if I do."

_You'll never see Reaper again if you go to sleep._

Tank's brow furrowed faintly. Above her, she could see Reaper's face contorting in what looked to be the beginnings of panic. She vaguely wondered what was wrong with him, and where on earth he got that ugly bruise on his left temple. But then she saw the tears in his eyes.

She frowned in confusion, trying to force the dimness in her vision back so that she could see whether or not her mind was playing tricks on her. A shiver ran down her spine when she saw that yes, there were tears glittering in his eyes.

"Why?" she asked him, her breath escaping her in a short burst because, even though it was gradually becoming easier to inhale and exhale, her lungs still felt constricted.

His lips moved. Tank frowned when she couldn't hear him.

"Can't-" She paused to draw a breath. "-hear."

Reaper stopped moving his mouth. Tank could see him glancing around as though looking for help. Finally, he looked down at her, and began to move his hands in strange patterns. Tank frowned. What was he doing? Then her foggy mind began to process what he was doing.

He was using sign language.

It was part of the series of hand signals that they'd all memorized during basic training.

"Don't," she read, "fall... asleep?"

Reaper nodded, and Tank blinked sluggishly.

"I'm... tired, John..." Her eyes drooped closed for a second as she breathed out, and then she forced them open again with her next shallow inhalation.

"So... tired."

Now he used a series of hand signals that Tank didn't immediately recognize. She frowned at him again.

"...What?"

He seemed to chuckle, since a small smile spread across his mouth, but his brow was still creased and his eyes still shone with worry and tears. He appeared thoughtful for a moment, and then he held up a sign that Tank was very familiar with.

It was the American Sign Language equivalent of "I love you".

Tank felt a smile twitch her lips.

"Love you," she breathed. Suddenly it became harder to breathe, and Tank's eyes widened in surprise, not knowing what was happening to her. However, Reaper looked calmly at her, and nodded. Tank relaxed. In a second, her breathing eased again, and she sighed in relief.

_Goat taking your pulse,_ Reaper signed.

"Oh," she breathed. Reaper looked at something over her head again, his brow furrowing, and then he nodded.

_Stay awake,_ he signed, looking back down at her. Tank's eyelids drooped again.

"Don't... know..." Tank could barely tell if she was even talking, anymore. She couldn't feel her lips to be sure if she was moving them. "'f I... can..."

Another burst of motion from Reaper caught her attention again. _I'm sorry_.

Tank's brow furrowed. She couldn't remember why he would be saying such a thing. Frankly, she was too tired to care. There was a motion on the edge of her vision. She followed it with her eyes.

A blond man was attaching a tube to a bag-like thing of red liquid. His blue eyes landed on her as he hung it on a peg on the wall. Tank absently wondered who he was, blinking slowly at him.

His hands moved. _I'm Goat._

"Goat," she repeated. The edges of her vision began to grow dim again. Alarm spread across the blond man's features, and his lips moved in words that Tank could neither hear nor process.

The world whirled briefly as her gaze was forcefully turned back to Reaper. _Stay awake,_ he signed. _Stay awake._

"What-" She had to take another breath. "-you... sorry... for?"

Reaper's eyes were remorseful. _I didn't mean to call you stupid._

Tank smiled slightly. "I... know." She took a breath. "Con... cussion?"

Reaper nodded. _I love you,_ he signed. _Don't fall asleep. Stay awake. Stay with me._

Tank frowned, her vision dimming further. She felt herself start to slip away.

"C..." Her voice wouldn't work. "C..."

Her vision went black.

* * *

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Doom, so any lawyers on here can just scram._

_Long chapter. It was one of my favorite fight scenes to write because it has Tank acting reckless and then, like things usually go when a soldier gets reckless, getting hurt for it. I realize that they probably wouldn't be able to communicate so fluently and eloquently with field signs, but Reaper seems to know some ASL, too. I'm using creative license, here. So sue me. (No, really, don't- I'm all but broke.)_

_If you want to know what got Tank in the end, look up **hypovolemic shock**. Nasty stuff, but real._

_Not much else to say. I have finals all next week, so things might get a little tough for a bit, but after that, I'll be back and kicking ass in no time._

_Thank you to those of you who reviewed the last chapter. These include **Steff7**, **CaffeineKid**, and **HereticPriest**. (Sorry, Heretic- FFN won't let me type your penname properly without erasing it) You guys all totally rock! *hugs everybody*_

_Next chapter will come 12-14-09._

_**-P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	24. 2041 AD RRTS Barracks 2100 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
****By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_All our knowledge has its origins in our perceptions.__"  
--Leonardo da Vinci_

_**Chapter 23.**_

* * *

_**2041 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 2100 hours**_

_...Beep..._

What was that sound?

_Beep.f_

It was getting louder. What on earth was it?

_BEEP._

Tank opened her eyes.

Took a breath.

Looked around, feeling tired.

She was in a familiar room, though she couldn't, for the life of her, remember where she was. How had she gotten there? The last thing she remembered was telling Reaper that she was tired when they were on the chopper.

Reaper. Reaper!

Where was he? Was he okay? How was his head doing? ...Why did she care? He had called her an idiot, thrown her worry for him back in her face like so much extra rubbish. He hadn't even apologized for it.

A grunt sounded to Tank's right. She slowly looked over to its source.

Reaper was there, clad in a simple black tank top and black sweatpants.

He was sitting in a hard plastic chair, head pillowed upon his right arm, which was laying across the side of Tank's mattress. His left hand was loosely clutching her right hand.

Tank's severe expression softened. _That_ was why she cared how he was doing, she reminded herself. She cared because she loved him, and she didn't want to see him hurting.

Reaper grunted again, and Tank's gaze was drawn back to his face from their entwined fingers. His features contorted slightly. Tank was surprised to realize that he was asleep. Then she noticed some other things about his features.

He was slightly thinner, more gaunt, than he had been; he had dark circles under his eyes, and the beginnings of a scraggly goatee and beard were forming on his chin and underneath his nose. Tank began to wonder exactly how long she had been sleeping for. She was only slightly mollified when she saw the fading bruise on his temple.

He grunted again, louder this time, and his expression twitched briefly into a deep frown. Tank absently brought her right thumb over to rub it gently across his knuckles.

She was shocked at how much the motion drained her.

However, after a second, Reaper's hand clenched in hers, and his hazel eyes slowly opened, slightly disoriented with sleep. Tank stared back quietly.

He blinked slowly at her a few times.

"...Hey," he whispered after several long moments. Tank noted that his voice was rough and faint.

"...Hey," she breathed. They stared at each other for a short time. Then Reaper's expression crumpled slightly, and he moved closer to her so that he could press her hand to his face.

Tank was bewildered by this action. Was he not still angry with her? He had never apologized for his actions, so Tank had assumed that he hadn't forgiven her.

"Aren't you angry with me?" she asked, her voice barely louder than a whisper. She felt Reaper take a trembling breath.

"Fuck, no," he replied. His voice wavered slightly when he spoke. "Why would I be?"

"Thought you were... still angry with me," Tank whispered, blinking tiredly at him. "You didn't apologize."

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "So sorry."

Tank sighed, figuring that that was all she would get out of him.

"Reaper. Reaper, look at me," she ordered, trying to put some strength into her words. Reaper slowly sat up, and moved his chair closer to her head so that they could speak easier.

"I thought we were going to lose you." His voice was quiet, and hoarse. "You passed out, and your vitals dropped..."

Reaper drew a shaking breath. He looked incredibly lost, and he gazed blankly at the wall to Tank's other side, his eyes haunted. Tank drew a deep, easy breath, and lifted her shaking right hand to put it on the back of his neck, gently directing him into a tender hug. She ignored the tugging that she felt in the crook of her left arm.

She sighed in contentment when his arms slipped around her torso and he buried his face against her collarbone.

"I really thought I lost you, Amanda," he whispered.

She released another relaxed breath, glad to be in his arms again. "But you didn't."

"Don't ever do that to me again," he suddenly murmured firmly. Tank blinked, and absently began to run her hand through his hair.

"Do what?" she asked, her voice gaining strength the more she used it. She felt him inhale shakily.

"Don't you _ever_ go and scare me like that again," he commanded. Tank felt a small smile come to her lips.

"I'll try not to," she said. Then, feeling the need to tease him come on, she smirked and stopped her hand's motions. "If I scared you so much, did you wet yourself?"

Reaper growled in response, and Tank chuckled. Then they lay there in silence, simply savoring each other's presence.

"So," Tank ventured after several moments, a thought hitting her all of a sudden. "Did I forget anything?"

_Sometimes when unconsciousness is induced it can have the added effect of slight amnesia. There have been many reported cases of victims forgetting the events of the last few moments during which they were awake. Some of them recalled the memories after a time; others didn't._

The memory of her medical instructor's voice echoed in Tank's mind, and she suddenly noted the truth in those words.

Reaper's voice brought her back to the present.

"What's the last you remember?"

She noted that he didn't bother to move. "You told me not to fall asleep," she answered. "You had to switch to hand signals because..."

She paused, and frowned, uncertain. "...Because I couldn't hear?"

"That's what you said," he replied.

"And then I told you that I was tired," she continued. "I don't remember anything after that."

Reaper sighed into her skin. "I told you I loved you," he informed her. "You said that you loved me, too, and then freaked out when Goat started to take your pulse again."

A dim memory lit in her mind, of rapid breathing and constriction in her throat. "I think I remember that," Tank said.

More of the forgotten time began to flood back to her. "You told me to stay awake again," she continued, her voice distant as she ran her hand through Reaper's hair again. "I told you I didn't know if I could... Then you..."

She paused, the vague memory of too-fast hand motions flashing before her eyes. Reaper was silent.

"You... apologized?"

"...Yeah," he whispered. Tank inhaled deeply, her thoughts coming to her in a slow, steady trickle, now.

"I saw Goat," she murmured. "He was hanging something on the wall... an IV drip?"

"We had to give you blood." Tank hummed.

"I guess I slipped into hypovolemic shock, then."

"Yeah." Reaper finally pulled away slightly so that he could look her in the eyes. His gaze was more serious than Tank had ever seen it. "You almost gave me a heart attack."

Tank released a shaky breath, brushing back the messy fringe that framed Reaper's forehead. "I know I did."

They were quiet for a moment, trying to read each others' eyes. Then Tank spoke again.

"I think I remember you and Goat panicking about something," she said softly.

"Your pupils had started to dilate," Reaper explained, his voice quiet. "You had already lost your hearing. You weren't responding to any tactile sensations. We knew that you were losing consciousness, so I tried to get you to stay awake until your condition had stabilized."

"But I didn't," Tank deduced. "I remember you telling me to stay awake again. Then I asked you what you were sorry for..."

"And I told you that I didn't mean to call you stupid," he continued. Tank nodded thoughtfully, and with absent affection ran her hand down his cheek.

"Right," she murmured. "I told you I knew that, and then guessed that you had said it because of your concussion. You told me that you loved me, again, and not to fall asleep. You said to stay awake. To... to stay with you?"

"Yes. Then you tried to say something," Reaper continued. His expression soured. Tank could guess what had happened next, though she still couldn't remember falling asleep.

"I passed out," she stated.

"You passed out," he affirmed. He sighed, and ran a trembling hand through his hair, messing it up even more than it already was. Tank giggled a bit at his disheveled appearance, and he cast her a curious glance.

"What?" he asked. Tank shook her head.

"It's nothing," she hedged, and purposely trailed off so that he frowned at her.

"What?" he growled. Tank's eyes twinkled as she looked up at him.

"You know," she started. "I kinda like the messy, unshaven look on you. Makes you look kinda... roguish."

Reaper raised an eyebrow. "Roguish?" he echoed.

"Handsome, adventurous... _dashing_," Tank listed off with a smile, keeping her voice light and airy. "Shall I go on?"

"And I wasn't any of those before?"

Tank chuckled, reached up to fist her hand in his t-shirt, and pulled him down to her for a brief kiss.

"Of course you were," she stated, "just in a different way. This look makes you seem a bit more... _untamed._"

He hummed against her mouth. "So you like 'em on the wild side, hmm?"

Tank chuckled. "I guess so."

Reaper finally cracked a smile. He kissed her again, and then sat back down in his chair. Tank settled herself back against her pillow and mattress. Then she looked over at him inquisitively.

"By the way, how long have I been out?" she asked. When Reaper cringed slightly, Tank knew that she wouldn't like the answer.

"Almost a week." Tank sat up in shock, her eyes wide and her eyebrows raised.

"Oh, sweet _Jesus!_ A _week?!_" she yelped. Then she groaned as her vision went yellow with a head-rush, and slumped back against the mattress.

"That's a _long_ fucking_ time!_" she grumbled when she could see again.

Reaper's eyes were tormented as he stared at her. "It is," he admitted softly.

Tank gasped when a sudden thought hit her, and she held her arm out in front of her, examining herself. Satisfied, she pulled the top of the thin gown she was dressed in away from her chest, looking down at her body.

She could almost _feel_ Reaper's incredulous stare.

Tank sighed when she saw that everything was normal, and settled back again, allowing the gown to fall against her chest. She raised her eyebrows in response to Reaper's disbelieving look.

"What?" she asked.

"Are you missing anything?" he asked dryly. Tank smirked, and shook her head.

"No, silly," she chided. "I was making sure my muscles hadn't atrophied."

Reaper affected sudden understanding, and sat back against the chair back with his arms crossed. However, a second later, he cocked his head to the side, studying her.

"Should I go ahead and tell everyone you're awake?" he asked. Tank blinked.

"Where are they, anyway?" she countered curiously. Reaper shrugged.

"Hanging out in the living quarters, I'd imagine," he replied. "It's about nine o'clock or so."

"2100 hours, right?"

"Yeah, _that_ nine o'clock." Tank groaned. Then she reached for him. He gave her a quizzical look, then gave her his hand. When she tugged on it, he chuckled and went to her.

Tank wasted no time in wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his chest.

"Hey, what's the matter?" he asked. "Scared?"

"Nah," she mumbled. "I just happen to like my peace and quiet, at times."

Reaper's chuckle entered her ear straight from his chest. Then they sat there in comfortable silence for a few moments until Reaper pulled away to give a jaw-cracking yawn. Tank blinked, and then frowned up at him.

"How many hours of sleep have you gotten?" she asked, her suspicions mounting. Reaper shrugged nonchalantly.

"Six or seven..." Tank pulled away from him to cross her arms and raise a pointed eyebrow at him. Her expression read 'Don't you _dare_ try to fool me'.

"...this week." This last was admitted in a slightly abashed voice, and Tank's eyebrows shot up toward her hairline so fast that it was almost comical.

"Six or seven hours of sleep this _week?!_" she almost shrieked. Tank lowered her arms to grip the bedsheets, staring at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. Then she suddenly yawned, ruining the effect. Reaper chuckled at her, and she glared at him as best she could with her watering eyes.

"Damn you and damn contagious yawns," she groused. Reaper just shook his head with a smile and leaned forward to wrap his arms around her middle. Tank finally gave up being mad at him, and allowed him to rest his head on her stomach. She ran her right hand through his hair in a soothing motion, gently cradling the back of his head with her left hand.

"I love you," she murmured. Then she looked down at her boyfriend to see that Reaper's eyes were drooping.

"Love you, too," he mumbled. Tank smiled, and laid back against her pillows again with a sigh.

The others could wait.

Tank laid there in contented silence, feeling Reaper's breathing gradually ease and slow as he fell asleep again. She was left with her thoughts, her hand lightly stroking his head.

She felt tired, but she couldn't sleep. Tank attributed it to the fact that she had physically been sleeping, healing, for a week, but her mind had been dormant. Thus it stood to reason that now, when her body was still tired, her mind would feel neglected. So, of course, it _would_ be the thing that kept her awake.

It was almost a half an hour until a motion at the door of the infirmary caught Tank's attention, and she looked over to see what it was.

It was Sarge.

Tank blinked at him, taking note of the hesitance in his expression and the almost hopeful look in his eyes. She sighed, and then welcomed him in with a smile. Sarge entered the room.

He made it a point to keep his footsteps muted, Tank noticed.

He didn't speak for a while, even after he reached her bedside. Instead, he just looked down on her and Reaper, his eyes studying them. Tank watched him in slightly wary silence. Sarge would speak when he wanted to, and no sooner.

Still, after five minutes under his scrutinizing gaze, even Tank was beginning to get a bit antsy.

"He hasn't willingly left your side for a week." The words took Tank by surprise, as did the almost affectionate tone in Sarge's usually gruff baritone voice. Tank sighed tiredly to mask it.

"Has he slept at all?" she whispered. Her hand never stopped running through her boyfriend's hair. Sarge shook his head.

"Goat finally drugged him after the third day," Sarge murmured. Tank nodded to a chair on her other side. Sarge caught the look and took a seat after rounding the foot of the bed.

"And after that?" Tank asked. Sarge sighed.

"He stopped eating," he replied heavily. "Didn't want to go to sleep. I guess he was scared that something would happen to you and he wouldn't be there."

Tank cringed. "I thought he looked a bit thin," she murmured. "He said he hadn't gotten more than six or seven hours of sleep, but..."

"You thought he was exaggerating," Sarge surmised. Tank nodded. "No, he's just been sitting here for most of the week. The rest of us have been taking shifts off and on during the days so that I could force him to train."

Tank looked at Sarge warily. "Even Portman?"

Sarge frowned and rolled his eyes. "Nah, none of us would trust him around an unconscious woman," he groused. "No. Pug, Hellraiser, Destroyer, and Goat took shifts most of the time, though Mac took a shift on Wednesday and Jumper watched over you after Goat drugged Reaper. Otherwise, Reaper's been the one with you."

They fell into silence for a few minutes, Tank pondering what she had been told, though she occasionally blinked sleepily. After a time, however, Sarge got to his feet again.

"Goat wanted to know when you woke up," he said. "I'll go tell the men."

Tank nodded. "Yeah," she affirmed quietly, and then paused. "Just tell them not to come see me all at once, okay?"

She looked down at Reaper's head resting on her stomach. "I don't want to wake him up, now that he's finally asleep."

Sarge nodded.

"Will do," he said. Then he smiled, and reached out to set his hand on top of her head, like he had often done when she was little.

Tank looked up at him quizzically from under his hand.

"It's good to see you awake again, Amanda," Sarge murmured to her. Then he playfully mussed up her hair. Tank squawked in protest, but she laughed quietly when he finally moved away.

"Thanks for visiting me, Dwayne," Tank said as he walked out the door. Sarge just left her with a parting smirk, and Tank was left alone with her thoughts again.

She absently mused for a few moments on how Reaper could have slept through her and Sarge's conversation, even with how exhausted he was. Then she shrugged slightly, surmising that he probably felt safe enough that he could finally rest.

Tank was slightly flattered at the thought, though she quickly brushed it away. It wouldn't do to get a big head, after all, she sleepily mused.

Goat quietly entered the room a few minutes later and took the chair that Sarge had so recently vacated.

"Glad to see you're up," he murmured to her in greeting. Tank gave him a lopsided smile.

"Glad to be up," she returned. "It's good to see your face again, Goat."

Goat nodded. His eyes fell on Reaper. "He's finally sleeping?"

"Yeah," Tank whispered gently. Her hand repeated its path over the crest of Reaper's head again. "He and Sarge both said that he hasn't slept in a week."

"He's been in here praying the rest of the time."

Tank blinked, and looked directly at Goat, slightly surprised by the new information. "Praying?"

Goat nodded. "I could hear him every time I came in here," he stated quietly. "He didn't talk very loudly, but I don't think he realized I was here half the time."

Tank smiled, looking fondly down at her boyfriend's sleeping form. "I guess God listened, then."

"Yes," Goat iterated solemnly. "God will provide."

Tank's smile widened. "Abraham and Issac, right?"

"Yes. Genesis, chapter twenty-two."

"God has always provided, and He honors His promises," Tank said with a chuckle. "I'm glad Reaper's finally realizing that."

"Me, too," Goat admitted. "Me, too."

They shared a comfortable silence for a few minutes. Then Tank looked over at Goat again.

"You know, you never told me how you liked going to church with us during leave," Tank said. Goat's lips twitched in the faintest ghost of a smile.

"One of the best experiences I have had in a long while," he confessed. "I had several interesting discussions with Pastor Smith regarding theology."

Tank couldn't hold back her grin. "I'm glad you liked it."

Then she chuckled, her increasing exhaustion evident in the sound.

"Maybe you should have been a priest instead of a Marine," she joked. A shadow of a grin ghosted across Goat's lips.

"Sometimes I wonder," he stated. Tank stared at him openly for a moment before realizing that he was continuing with her joke. Then she chuckled.

"I'm sure you would have made a great preacher," she said. "You have a fun side under all your tough-ass exterior."

"Really, now," Goat said, his voice almost a drawl. Tank grinned at him.

"Really, now," she echoed, firm in her conviction. Goat nodded, and then got up.

"I will let you rest, now," he murmured quietly. Tank fought back a yawn, and nodded.

"Thanks for coming to see me," she said. She felt her eyelids begin to droop. "I'll see you and the rest of the squad tomorrow."

"I'm sure you will." Goat's voice sounded somewhat wry, but Tank just smiled sleepily up at him.

"G'night, Goat," Tank murmured.

Goat cracked a tiny smile. "Goodnight, Tank," he replied.

Then he was gone.

Two minutes later, Tank yawned widely and shifted slightly, sliding further down in the bed and curling around Reaper more. A second later, she closed her eyes and drifted off into a real sleep.

From the door, Sarge looked in on them, and smiled.

* * *

_**2041 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 1000 hours**_

"Come on! I _can_ stand on my own!"

"You just spent a week unconscious! How can you claim to have recovered so quickly?"

Tank growled at Reaper, crossing her arms defiantly over her chest where she was perched on the side of her cot in the infirmary. She was wearing a set of scrubs not unlike those worn by nurses in general hospitals.

It had only been one day since she had woken, she inwardly mused, and they were already bickering.

"Because _I_ didn't get a fucking _concussion! _It was only hypovolemic shock, Reaper! Not a head wound!"

Reaper crossed his arms over his chest, just as stubborn as she was. "Hypovolemic shock is a serious condition, Tank! You shouldn't be moving around so soon!"

"I'm the doc, here!" Tank reminded him, exasperated. "I know my own condition! Besides, I need to exercise my leg!"

She gestured to her bared shin, the bandages stark and white against her tan skin. "If I don't, then it'll be _forever_ before I'm able to work it again!"

Reaper stared at her incredulously, but he knew that she did have a point. Already the wound had been healing nicely; it would soon be time for Tank to take her stitches out. Coupled with her previous wound and two months' worth of no real training, Tank's left leg was looking almost thin from the loss of muscle mass.

After several minutes of deliberation, Reaper sighed. "On one condition."

Tank rolled her eyes. "Name it."

"I get to catch you when you fall," he replied. Tank continued to scowl at him for a few seconds, but she couldn't hold her smile down indefinitely.

"How 'bout I just lean on you, instead?" she asked. Reaper pretended to ponder the question for a moment.

"I think that'll work." He stooped slightly to draw Tank's right arm across his shoulders. Her cotton scrubs rustled in protest, but Tank just closed her eyes and inhaled Reaper's scent, acutely aware of how close she had come to never smelling it again.

She looked forward again a minute later, and focused on slowly stretching out the stiff and sore muscles of her left leg. She winced when they protested. However, Tank was eventually able to fully extend her leg and set her foot on the floor.

She grinned with that small victory.

Then Reaper wrapped his left arm around her waist, and up they went. Tank's right leg stretched easily and fluidly. Her strong muscles supported her without difficulty. Once she was standing, they began to walk across the room. Tank found it harder to move her left leg than she had imagined it would be. However, like a real trooper, she brushed it off and made her slow way across the floor.

"You know," she suddenly mused aloud. "Why is it that it always seems to be my left leg that gets injured in some way?"

Reaper chuckled. "Bad luck?"

Tank sighed. "Maybe," she said. "I _did_ break a mirror a few years back."

Reaper looked over at her as they took another deliberate step. "Superstitious, much?"

Tank frowned. "Well, yeah," she admitted. "Every time I pick up a tails-up penny I have a bad day. Every time a strange black cat crosses my path, I have a bad day. Every time I walk under a ladder, I have a bad day."

She glanced up at him, and shrugged as best she could. "I've had good reason to _be _superstitious."

"At least your shoelace isn't untied," Reaper chuckled. Tank glanced down at her feet, which were clad in the bunny slippers that Simmons had given her when she got assigned to RRTS Six.

"I don't _have_ shoelaces," Tank deadpanned. Reaper paused mid-step, causing Tank to gasp as she faltered. Reaper, however, didn't let her fall.

When she looked up at him questioningly, he looked down at her feet. "You're right. You have bunnies, instead."

Tank stared at him for a second before cracking a smile. "Thank Simmons. They're his fault."

Reaper smirked at her, and made to take another step forward. However, Tank stayed where she was, and tugged him back to her.

"Hey," she murmured. "There's something I need to do that I haven't done in a week."

Reaper raised an eyebrow. "You need to use the bathroom?"

Tank blushed.

"No!" She pulled him so that he was facing her, and wrapped her other arm around his neck. Reaper, taking the hint, put his other arm around her waist, supporting most of her weight.

"You haven't been good and kissed for a week," she said. "And neither have I."

Reaper smiled a little bit, and leaned down toward her. "Because I'm feeling totally neglected, right?"

"Of course," Tank retorted, and leaned up to capture his mouth with hers.

The kiss was long and slow, this time, with both of them taking the moment to savor the touch and taste of each other. When Tank's tongue flicked out to caress Reaper's bottom lip, asking for entrance, he willingly gave it to her, deepening the contact.

Tank silently mused on how he tasted like coffee, dark and tempting. She thought that it must have lingered from the cup of the stuff he had downed earlier that morning. Truthfully, she didn't mind it at all.

It was a few moments before they finally parted, breathless. Tank held still while Reaper leaned his forehead against hers.

"You know," she mused after a few seconds. "You kinda taste like coffee."

Reaper was silent for a brief pause. Then he chuckled.

"Yeah?" It was more of a statement.

"Yeah."

"Well, you taste like toothpaste."

Tank laughed quietly, running her hand through his short brown hair.

"You'd better be thankful that I do," she said, "and that I took the time to shower this morning. Otherwise I'd taste and smell a lot more horrible than I currently do."

"So, so true," he murmured, but he dove back down for another brief kiss all the same.

When they next broke apart, Tank withdrew her left arm from around his neck, though he kept both arms around her waist.

"Come on," she chided gently, though her words held some real reluctance. "We need to keep going."

Reaper shook his head, and then they were on their way.

* * *

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own it. I only own the people you don't recognize from the movie/book._

_I HATE FINALS. Officially HATE them. Sigh._

_The thing that she recalls about the memory loss? Yeah. It's true. I've actually experienced it, myself. They put me under anesthesia when I had surgery to put my nose back in place after it got broken (I was 14). I remember counting backwards from 100. I don't remember falling asleep. It's totally true that the induction of unconsciousness does have a slight (or sometimes great) amnesiac effect._

_I was going to write another flashback for this chapter. Then I forgot what I was going to write, so this is what came out instead. Hope you liked it._

_A big thanks goes out to **Sam Kallberg**, **CaffeineKid**, and **Steff7** for reviewing! You all totally made my day when I read your reviews._

_Next chapter should be posted 12-21-09._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	25. 2041 AD RRTS Barracks 0900 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
****By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_I remember falling, I remember marching like a one-man army through the blaze. I know I'm coughing, I believe in something, I don't want to remember falling for your lies__.__"  
--Our Lady Peace, 'One-Man Army'_

_**Chapter 24.**_

* * *

_**2041 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 0900 hours**_

_Thump, thump, th-thump._

Her feet pounded against the ground in a rhythmic beat, carrying her as fast and as far as they could. Sweat and rainwater streamed into her eyes, half-blinding her.

The first obstacle appeared.

She leapt over the hip-high log as easily as an Olympic hurdler. Her feet hit the ground again, and she continued without breaking stride. Behind her, she could hear her pursuers' heavy breaths over the sound of her own gasping. They were catching up.

The second obstacle appeared, a wall to climb. Three ropes hung down its face, swaying with the slight breeze.

She made it at a dead sprint, leaping, grabbing the center rope. Her body impacted with a jarring thud on the wooden surface, but she was too well-trained, too used to such things, to allow it to slow her pace. She got her feet between her and the wall and began to climb, using her strong arms and legs to reverse-belay her up the wall.

By the time she slung herself over the top to climb down the other side, her hands, legs, arms, and shoulders were all burning with fatigue. Then came another sprint to the third obstacle.

She hurled herself prone to pull herself through the thick mud underneath a low net. It was hard going, slowed her dramatically, but she trooped through it determinedly. She wouldn't give up. Several yards into the obstacle, she heard several wet squelches and splashes behind her. She put on another burst of speed.

Then she was free, scrambling to her feet and breaking into another sprint.

Her lungs burned and her chest heaved. She felt sick to her stomach. Her limbs shook with exhaustion and strain. But she couldn't stop, for to stop would be to fail. To stop would be to get caught.

The fourth obstacle neared. She centered herself in preparation for it.

Then she reached it, and jumped to the first of a series of poles, anchored in a pit full of mud and water. She wobbled a bit at first until she gained her balance. She jumped to the second pole, then the third, then the fourth.

The poles were slick and wet, however, and while her boots had good traction, they were far from perfect. Her right foot slid off of the edge of the pole, and she pitched forward with a shocked gasp. She instinctively threw her hands out in front of her, and she caught herself on the top of the wooden beam. Her teeth clacked together as her chin impacted with the flat top of the pole. Its rough surface gored the flesh of her chin.

For several seconds, she hung there, struggling not to fall.

Then she managed, with quaking arms and a burst of adrenaline, to pull herself up onto the top of the pole and jump to the sixth, seventh, and eighth logs, before she finally made it to land again.

No time for a breather, though. Her pursuers were hot on her tail.

Shaking sweat, rainwater, and mud out of her eyes, she loped along to the fifth and final obstacle.

A rope was strung horizontally between two platforms, a good thirty feet above the ground and probably forty-five feet long. Another rope led up to the top of the platform it was connected to; she knew that a third rope would take her back to the ground on the other side.

Her breath came in quick gasps as she hurled herself up the rope that would take her to the platform. When she got to the top, she rolled upright, grabbed onto the long rope with aching hands, and swung her legs up. She crossed her legs and feet around the rope, hooking her ankles around each other. Then she began to make her way to the other side.

Now, if there was one thing that she absolutely hated about this course, it was the rope shimmy. Why, one might ask? Because there was no safety net, only a thirty-foot drop to the ground below, and a sudden, injuring stop at the bottom.

Needless to say, she had never fallen.

Her hands, though sweaty and exhausted, were sure of each placement. Her legs, though they wanted to give out from fatigue, were strong in their grip. She made it three-quarters of the way across the rope without incident.

Then her left leg, which had held up remarkably well through all the strain, exploded with agony. She yelped with surprise, her hands slipping and her legs' grip weakening. At the last possible second she managed to hang on with her hands, and hooked her right knee across the rope. Chest heaving, she released her left leg so that it hung by the ankle.

Unfortunately, her black jumpsuit hid anything that might have shown where she had been injured. However, she could feel that the burning pain was centralized in her calf.

Swearing under her breath, she pushed the pain to the back of her mind and turned her attention to completing the course. Then she could collapse with exhaustion and examine her wound. Gritting her teeth, she reaffirmed her grip on the rope and began to pull herself along again.

It was difficult to do without the use of her left leg, but she made it across just as the first of her pursuers made it halfway across the rope. Then, panting, she limped to the other side of the platform, grabbed the rope that would take her to the ground, and began to belay herself down. She made sure to keep her left leg as still as possible.

Five feet from the ground, her right foot slipped again on the rain-slick wood. Her hands, aching madly from gripping the rope so hard, finally stopped responding.

She fell.

She didn't even have the time to cry out before her rear end hit the soft, muddy ground with a thud and a burst of searing pain. Her butt was shortly followed by her torso and head. She stared up at the sky, unseeing, for a moment, dazed as she was by the impact. Then she shook herself and gingerly sat up.

When a shot of pain exploded from between her legs and from her tailbone, she knew without a doubt that she had busted _something._

However, her tailbone seemed as though it had just been bruised, not broken. She could still walk, maybe even run.

She did just that.

It was a struggle just to get to her feet, but she managed it, using the wall for support. Then she jogged off with slow, tender movements, glimpsing the brown hair of one of her pursuers cresting the wall as she went. The pain didn't fade as she moved, but it became more easy for her to bear, and luckily didn't intensify.

Tank jogged past the white-marked trees that symbolized the end of the course.

Then she hobbled over to a tree, her hand on her lower back, and sagged to the ground, her legs no longer able to support her through the pain and fatigue.

Reaper, Goat, Jumper, Portman, Hellraiser, Destroyer, Mac, and Sarge joined Tank a minute later, in that order.

Reaper immediately collapsed next to her, his chest heaving, and the rest of them did similarly around the sides of the trail. None of them spoke for several moments, all too winded to do more than try to catch their breath. Sarge, however, was the first to speak.

"Well done, men," he panted out after awhile. "Tank, where the hell did you learn to run like that?"

Tank gave Sarge a shaky grin. "I had friends in cross country during high school."

Then her leg and butt gave a throb, and she hissed, wincing. Tank carefully bent over, pulling her pants' leg out of her boot and rolling it up so that she could see her stitched wound.

The stitches were intact, but the strain she had put on it showed. Redness permeated the still-raw scar underneath the black thread. Tank could tell that it would be stinging for a while.

"Didn't tear the stitches," she replied to Sarge's inquiring look. Then she winced again as she reached forward to roll her pants' leg back down.

"Bruised my tailbone pretty bad on that last stretch, though," Tank admitted, leaning back against the tree with a quiet groan. She grimaced, and reached behind her to gently massage the area above her tailbone.

Reaper winced with sympathy. "That sucks."

Tank sighed, then looked over at him with a wry smile. "No shit, Sherlock."

She didn't mention to them the pain she had felt between her legs. She had a hunch of what had happened, and would take care of _that_ herself. Tank couldn't help the resigned, lamenting sigh that escaped her lips. None of them commented on the exhalation, though, doubtlessly thinking that she was just in pain.

They rested for about ten minutes before getting up and beginning to make their way back to where they'd left the Humvee. Tank gratefully allowed Reaper to draw her arm over his shoulders and support her as she gingerly limped along.

Five minutes into their walk, Tank noticed Jumper glancing at her, as well as the broad smirk on the younger soldier's face. Tank frowned.

"Something funny, Jumper?" she asked, keeping her tone light and pain-free. Tank watched as Jumper's grin widened, and the red-haired man turned to talk to the brunette, walking backwards as he did so.

"You're walking like you just got kicked in the balls," Jumper said with a snicker. Tank blinked at Jumper for a moment as Portman, Mac, Hellraiser, and Jumper laughed. Even Reaper cracked a grin.

Then Tank started chuckling, too.

"You have to admit," Reaper said after a moment of this. Tank looked over at him as he continued. "She did pretty fucking well for a cripple."

Tank felt her cheeks heat. "I didn't do _that_ well."

"Better than the rest of us," Sarge called from the front of the group. Tank's gaze landed on her CO.

"How so?" she asked.

"You made the twenty-mile obstacle course in under an hour and still finished before the rest of us," he replied. "For a cripple, that's pretty damn good."

Tank winced as her leg and tailbone painfully reminded her of the price she had paid for getting first place. "Yeah, and a bruised tailbone and a raw wound to show for it."

Tank gasped as Reaper jostled her slightly, and looked over at him with a slight frown. "What?"

"Just accept the fucking compliment and get it over with," he growled at her, but Tank could see his eyes twinkling.

She scowled at him.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" It was more of an accusation. Reaper affected a flawless 'innocent' look.

"Who? Me?" Tank rolled her eyes, carefully stepping over an exposed root.

"Who else? Big-foot?" She shook her head.

"Oh, oh!" Hellraiser finally chimed in with his own two cents. "I know, I know! It's the yeti! No, it's a werewolf! Oh, oh! No, it's gotta be Dracula!"

Tank chuckled. "Shut the fuck up, Hellraiser."

Still laughing, they finished the hike and piled into the Humvee. In three minutes, they were on the road, heading back to the barracks.

Ten minutes later, they all trooped inside the barracks. Tank immediately steered toward the kitchen, while the rest of them headed downstairs in the direction of the gym area.

"Tank." It was Sarge. Tank looked over her shoulder at him, hunched over with her hand on her lower back. She was half-in and half-out of the kitchen door.

"Yeah, Sarge?" He levelled a raised eyebrow at her.

"Where do you think you're going, Marine?" he inquired, crossing his arms. Tank winced.

"To _ice_ my _ass_, sir," she replied with a groan, absently rubbing her lower back.

Sarge shook his head. "Whatever," he said. "Just come downstairs when you're finished. We need to work on getting that leg of yours back up to strength."

Tank flashed him a half-hearted salute. "Sir."

Sarge nodded, and then headed down the stairs after the rest of the men. Once she was alone, Tank hobbled into the kitchen.

It didn't take her long to find an ice pack in the freezer, next to the few medical supplies they kept that had to be frozen. Tank grabbed it, and then pressed it to her tailbone with a faint hiss of discomfort. Then she headed back out of the kitchen again and, after checking that the coast was clear, she ducked into the infirmary again. She immediately headed for the restroom.

She shut the door behind her decisively, and then set the ice pack down on the sink and went about removing her flak vest and unzipping her jumpsuit. It pooled around her booted feet with a wet squelch, soaked with rainwater and mud. Tank grimaced, and pulled her dance shorts, also drenched, down around her ankles. They were shortly followed by her modest white panties, and she seated herself on the toilet.

The crotch of her underwear was splotched with blood.

Tank felt a sense of disappointed numbness settle over her, and she swallowed to wet her throat. She had just finished her period the week before, so the blood was not from her menstrual cycle. No, this was from her fall earlier. This was why she had felt the pain between her legs.

The impact had broken her hymen.

Sighing, Tank wadded up a few sheets of toilet paper and stuck them in her panties before she got up again, pulling her clothes back on.

"You know," she said to the silence, desperate for something to break the suddenly stifling air. "Somehow I always figured that even with all the training and stuff my hymen would remain intact until I lost my virginity."

She heaved another sigh, zipping up the last few inches of her jumpsuit. Then she pulled on her flak vest, zipping it up, too.

"Guess God had other plans," she muttered, slightly disgruntled. Then she flushed the toilet, washed her hands, grabbed the ice pack, and headed out for the locker room, the cold pack pressed firmly to her backside.

Really, how disappointing.

* * *

_**2041 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 1900 hours**_

"I can't believe it's November third, already."

The quiet admission brought Tank's attention over to Reaper where he was lounging on her bunk, a book laying, pages down, on his thigh. His hazel gaze was distant as he stared listlessly at the wall to his right. She smiled faintly.

Approximately four months had passed since they'd begun dating, meaning that almost seven months had passed since they'd been reunited.

Since she had almost died during the Venezuela mission two months previous, Tank had been on three other missions.

The first had entailed RRTS Six being called to Vietnam. They'd infiltrated a military base, recovered a set of plans for nuclear weapons, and blown the place to kingdom come. The only casualties had been a few scrapes and bruises, but most of them were unharmed.

The second mission had landed them in northern Russia, in the Siberian region. It had been a search and destroy mission, to take out an ammo dump after confirming that it had housed a slew of nuclear missiles. Hellraiser had sustained a badly broken arm and Jumper had fractured his right femur, but they'd been the only casualties and Tank had been able to tend to them on the fly with little difficulty.

The last task had taken place just over the past week, and had only involved two RRTS members. Tank and Reaper had undertaken the operation, sneaking deep into enemy territory in Iraq. They'd traveled for two days in order to stake out a canyon through which a caravan would be passing carrying several high-ranking members of a terrorist organization. The objective was to take out these men.

Tank's aim had not faltered.

The mission hadn't left them unscathed, however. Though the Iraqis had neither seen nor harmed them, the harsh desert environment and the need to stay totally still for long periods of time had depleted them. By the time that they made it back to the rendezvous point a full week after the mission started, both Tank and Reaper were dehydrated, suffering greatly from heat exhaustion, and so weak from severe sunburn and lack of nourishment that neither could really move.

The experience had scarred them for life. Tank never wanted to feel that thirsty ever again. She could tell that Reaper felt similarly.

"I hear you," she murmured in reply to his statement. She looked back down at her game of solitaire and slowly flipped another card over, wincing as her abused, reddened skin cracked. She and Reaper were both as red as lobsters in the best of places, and in the worst places, they were blistering and cracking.

Hellraiser had had a lot of fun teasing them about their new colors after they'd been treated for second-degree burns.

Jumper and Mac hadn't helped when they only encouraged him.

"Before you know it, it'll be Christmas," Reaper continued quietly. Tank finally turned her full attention to him. The sounds of the rest of the squad's recreational time gradually filtered out until she was focused only on her boyfriend.

"What's bothering you, Reaper?" she asked. Reaper shrugged, but Tank thought she saw him slip a hand into his pocket.

"It's almost Thanksgiving, again," he murmured. Tank fell silent, the significance lost on her for a moment. Then it dawned on her what he was talking about, and her brow creased faintly before she slowly reached up and grasped his hand lightly.

"I'll be with you, this year," she softly assured him. He finally looked over at her.

"It's hard to believe they've already been gone eleven years," he whispered. Tank nodded, lightly squeezing his hand.

"I know," she murmured. "I know."

They lapsed into silence, but didn't break eye contact. Again, Tank thought she saw him fiddle with something in his pocket, but she brushed it off and reluctantly went back to her game of solitaire.

"How are your burns doing?" Tank looked back up at him.

"Well enough," she replied. "They're more itchy than anything, right now. You?"

Reaper winced.

"I've got blisters in places I didn't know I had," he muttered, disgruntled. "Somehow, I don't think I'll be surprised if I get diagnosed with melanoma in the next year or so."

Tank smiled thinly. "Don't talk like that, please. It's bad enough that we face death in action. I don't even _want_ to think about dying from cancer, right now."

Reaper sighed. "And which one of us is supposed to be the realist, again?"

Tank grinned. "I am, of course. I just don't want to think about it right now."

"Whatever," Reaper groused, but he gave her a good-natured smile nonetheless. Tank chuckled.

"So we have tomorrow off, if all goes well," she ventured after a second of silence. "What're you planning on doing?"

Reaper stared at her thoughtfully for a moment, and then shrugged. "I don't really know."

Tank smiled. "I have an idea."

"Yeah?" Reaper raised an inquisitive eyebrow at his girlfriend. "What's that?"

Tank cackled in an evil manner, causing Reaper to recoil slightly with unease.

"You'll see," she responded. Reaper groaned.

"Should I or should I not dread this newest diabolical scheme of yours?"

Tank raised her eyebrows. "Have you been talking to my sister recently?"

Reaper blinked. "No. Why?"

"Because you're starting to sound like her."

Reaper just grinned.

* * *

_**Disclaimer:** Don't own Doom._

_IIIII LIIIIIVEEE!!! Ahem. Anyway, if you couldn't tell, I'm back, at least for the moment until some other tragedy occurs. I now have a brand-spanking-new power cord (Finally! Phew.), but now my battery's deciding to kick out on me. On the upside, I can still function as long as it's plugged in, and I'm hopefully going to be getting Windows 7 soon, so I'm going to have a lot of fun with that._

_On another note, this update is a day early because today's my 20th birthday and I wanted to give you guys a present as well._

_Thank you all SO MUCH for your patience during my hiatus, and I hope to hear from you all. That INCLUDES those people who have this story on their story alert system! You and I both know who you are! *gives non-reviewing readers the evil eye*_

_And a big thank you goes to those people who reviewed chapter 23 (24, if you're counting the prologue). These include **Steff7** and **CaffeineKid**. And another thank you goes out to those reviewers who sent me words of support after I made the announcement of my hiatus. These include **Sam Kallberg**, **Steff7**, and **KageOkami-Kogo**. You guys are all awesome. Your words meant a lot to me when I read them in my e-mails (off of a public computer, blegh). Thank you all so much for all of your encouragement!_

_The Tank/Reaper action will pick up a bit more in the next chapter (in a manner of speaking, that is). That much I can promise!_

_As another aside: Who all on here is a fan of Capcom games? Meaning Street Fighter, Onimusha, Sonic the Hedgehog...? And who's a fan of Final Fantasy?_

_Next chapter should be posted 2-15-10._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	26. 2041 AD RRTS Barracks 0300 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
****By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_"Wear cute pajamas to bed. You never know who you'll meet in your dreams!"__"  
--Anonymous_

_**Chapter 25.**_

* * *

_**2041 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 0300 hours**_

It was almost three o'clock in the morning on November the twenty-sixth. Tank laid awake on her bunk, her mind poring over the events of earlier that day.

It had been three weeks since her date with Reaper on November fourth, during which they'd gone for a picnic in Joshua Tree National Park. They'd ended up falling asleep under a tree, after which they'd eventually been woken up by the beginnings of a rainstorm. She and Reaper had fled back to the nearest shelter to wait it out.

_It had been nearly unbearable for Tank to be so near him underneath that small outcropping, with so much heat exchanged between their bodies. The rainwater had slicked his black tank top to his skin, leaving almost nothing to Tank's imagination; she had also seen how he had been affected when her white t-shirt had become almost transparent. She had been rather embarrassed when she began to get cold, too._

_Needless to say, it was a very tense ride back to the barracks late that night after they'd finally managed to get to the car they'd borrowed for the day. Tank had stuck to her convictions, though, and nothing had happened save for a few heated kisses and some terse stints out in the cold rain._

Tank sighed, the memories fading from her mind. That had been three weeks ago, and before the rain had come, it had been a very pleasant day.

Which brought her mind back to the events of earlier that morning.

_Her and Reaper's burns had finally healed, and Tank had been elated to find that she could finally move fully without the fear of skin cracking and blisters weeping or popping. Thus, instead of their usual training exercises after weight-lifting, she had proposed something entirely different._

_Volleyball._

_Jumper had vouched for that option immediately and enthusiastically, whereas all the other men had been leery at first. They thought it was a rather feminine sport._

_Then Tank had supported it with the notion that it would build teamwork and help with their coordination. Sarge couldn't argue with that. The passing hour had found them all decked out in shorts and t-shirts, and Tank and Jumper, who had been ready before the other men, had quickly run to the store for a volleyball._

_The results had been interesting._

_Tank, Hellraiser, Jumper, Pug, and Goat had squared off against Reaper, Sarge, Destroyer, Mac, and Portman. A simple rope had served as the net marker, and they'd played on the sunny lawn that they usually used for various militaristic activities._

_Tank had learned several things about her squadmates that day. The first was that most of them, when put into a situation that involved more play than work, could actually cut loose and play. Secondly, that Reaper had a mean spike. And thirdly, that while both Goat and Sarge could be incredibly sore losers, Jumper hated losing the most out of all of them._

Tank was still nursing her burning ears from the younger soldier's tirade.

Tank was drawn out of her musings when she heard Reaper stir on his bunk above hers. She heard him draw a deep breath, then let it out in a sigh, and with a faint creak of the bed springs, he settled back down again. A smile warmed her face for a moment, and then she fell back into her thoughts in silence.

_It was after the long, hard, and fun volleyball game that Tank realized that her PDA had a new voicemail message on it. She had been unable to listen to it until after she had finished with her dinner and shower, but when she had heard what had been said on the message, she had been both elated and antsy at the same time._

_Tori had had her baby._

_It was almost a month early, but Tank knew that that could have been for any number of reasons. She was very happy for her cousin, of course; the only problem was that she worried that the next mission might kill her, and she would never get to meet the new baby._

_Every time she went out on a mission, she worried that it might be her last. Usually she was able to put her unease out of her mind and focus, but after the close call she'd had on the Venezuela mission, Tank had a bit more trouble focusing herself before operations started._

And so Tank was still awake, fretting silently over how and when her life might end.

She had heard stories of soldiers who got the Thousand-Yard Stare, who could sense when they were going to die. Tank absently wondered if she was developing such a sixth sense. After all, she hadn't felt uneasy like she currently was since she had been dying from hypovolemic shock in Pozo Azul.

Sighing, Tank turned on her side and curled up slightly, pillowing her head on her arm. It was nights like this when she really missed being able to cuddle into Reaper's warm chest and let all of her cares wash away with each relaxed breath.

It was difficult for her, to be so close to him physically but to be unable to reach out to him, to have him hold her soothingly in his arms, so much stronger than she was...

Tank heard Reaper shift again, and released a soft sigh, knowing that she was never going to get any sleep at her current rate. She was getting thirsty again, anyway.

Taking a deep breath, Tank slowly and quietly sat up on her bunk before getting to her feet with nary a creak of the bed springs. Then she made her way across the room and up the stairs, utilizing all of her stealth training to remain silent. After all, it was peace, quiet, and a glass of water that she desired, not a bunch of grouchy Marines.

She made it to the kitchen within two minutes, moving slowly, and absently flipped on the lights.

The kitchen was as unchanged as it had always been, save for the addition of a couple of mugs sitting on the counter-top against the right side of the room. In the middle of the room was the long table with its benches in true military style. Built into the counter were the gas-burning stove, the refrigerator and freezer, and the sink and dishwasher. Above the utilities were cabinets that held various items ranging from dishes to spices and dry goods.

Sighing again, Tank crossed to the cabinets and pulled down a glass, filling it with water from the tap. Then she hoisted herself up to sit on the counter, her cotton drawstring pants rustling slightly with the motions.

She slowly sipped the water, closing her eyes as she delved into her thoughts once more.

Several minutes passed in silence until she finally polished off that glass and set the empty container down on the counter. Tank kept her eyes closed, relishing in the silence without her squadmates' snores and various other nighttime noises.

Without her realizing it, Tank leaned back on her hands, scooting her bottom toward the edge of the counter so that her legs all but hung off of the side.

It was only when a pair of strong hands grasped her hips and a powerful, firm body pressed itself between her thighs that she realized the position she had put herself into.

Tank gasped, her eyes staying closed as his lips descended upon her neck, his hands traveling up underneath her tank top to brush against her nipples, pinching, caressing, massaging. Then his hands moved around to her back and his mouth landed upon hers.

"Reaper," she moaned into the heat of his kiss. Reaper just growled, pressing her to him so that she could feel the bulge of his arousal against her core. Tank couldn't help the gasp and quiet mewl that transferred from her mouth to his.

Tank moaned passionately as Reaper's hands dipped down below the waistline of her pants, underneath her underwear, to caress the smooth flesh of her bottom and hips. She panted into him as he ground up into her core, unable to stop a strangled gasp from escaping her. Her hands fumbled for him, wanting to explore him, to _feel_ him, to sheathe him...

The deft fingers of her right hand found the tie of Reaper's drawstring pants, which she had given to him shortly after his birthday. Her left hand came up to cup Reaper's chin, feeling the roughness of the stubble there as he attacked her mouth with almost bruising force.

Heat built quickly in Tank's abdomen, so hot and so tight that it almost hurt. She wanted to cry from it, wanted to scream his name into the kitchen air, wanted to... wanted to...

She wanted _him_.

"John," she panted when he briefly parted from her lips to bathe her neck in kisses. Tank's left hand trailed down his firm chest, feeling every rise and dip of his muscles, feeling the way they tensed, flexed, twitched, relaxed, with every touch of her fingers.

His pants came undone under her right hand.

Tank had learned a while ago that Reaper liked to go commando when he wasn't on a mission, but to feel him, to know his size, his shape, was enough to make her heart pound, her breath come short, her lower abdomen throb with her desire.

"John," she groaned again as he pulled her onto himself. His erection molded her panties and pants around his tip as he pushed his head into her opening through the fabric and then pulled out and rubbed against that sensitive bundle of nerves at her base. Tank thought, in the back of her mind, that she must have been hyperventilating.

Then his hands fumbled with her own pants, and soon the simple knot she had tied them with came undone and her pants and underwear were pushed down around her ankles. He positioned himself at her entrance after hearing her desperate whimpers. Then Tank wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed herself to him.

He entered her with a slow, smooth stroke and a long, soft groan that was entirely akin to how Tank had always imagined him sounding. Tank, however, had arched into his body, her head thrown back in ecstasy and her mouth open in a silent cry of rapture. Her fingers clutched his shoulders in a white-knuckled grip, and her legs pulled his hips closer and closer, until he was buried to the hilt in her.

She finally sucked in a breath when he began to withdraw.

"Faster," she gasped when he completed another stroke. The heat coiling in her abdomen was building, flaring, tensing, _tensing_...

He rammed into her, his lips finding hers again. He bit down on her lower lip none-too-gently, and she opened her mouth with a gasp, feeling him withdraw and thrust again.

"Faster," she panted into his mouth. "Harder, deeper..."

He complied, his strong hands lifting her off of the counter and angling her for better leverage as he continued to pound into her.

"Fuck," she whimpered as that tension built further. "Fuck... Fuck...! Fuck!"

It was lost on her that each of her words corresponded with a stronger, faster thrust that went deeper into her each time.

Then he hit a spot that sent sparks into her mind, and she gasped before whimpering in ecstasy, clenching her thighs around him. He continued to thrust, in, out, in, out.

In the back of her mind, Tank knew that what she was doing was horribly bad, but she didn't care. It felt too good, too _right_, to be with Reaper in that moment, to not have to worry about the consequences of her actions.

She drew in a loud gasp a few seconds later when that tension began to intensify rapidly, that amazing, delicious heat flaring into a blaze so intense that she threw her head back so that she could breathe.

Reaper's hot mouth descended upon her breasts, caressing, licking, suckling, nipping, all through the fabric of her white tank top.

That heat intensified, the tension knotting so hard that she was sure she would snap in two as he thrust rapidly into her.

"J-J-J-John...!" she stammered, her word ending in a breathless moan. "I-I'm gonna...!"

And then he hit that spot again.

Tank sucked in as much air as her lungs could hold, completely taken by surprise as every single muscle in her lower abdomen, thighs, and butt clenched in unison, sending her over the edge into what she could only describe as pure, unadulterated pleasure.

She heard his masculine groan, felt his thrusts increase in pace for a second, and then-

Tank's eyes flew open wide with a gasp to find herself still sitting on the counter, a glass of water in her firm grasp.

When she realized what had happened, Tank groaned quietly and buried her hot face in her hand.

"Great," she muttered to the still, empty air of the kitchen. "My first wet dream."

She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost 0500 hours, meaning that, between her earlier musings and her daydream, she had wiled away almost two hours. Tank sighed, downed her now-warm water, and hopped off of the counter to wash her glass. When it was clean, she dried it and put it away. Then she wordlessly sat down at the table and put her head in her hands.

She knew her resolve was crumbling. She had known it for awhile. But Reaper hadn't shown any inclination or desire towards marriage, and she was bound and determined to save herself for her wedding night. Seriously, though, things were going too far. He was driving her crazy!

Tank inhaled deeply and released the air in a measured breath.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Tank jumped at the sound of Sarge's voice, her head whipping around to stare at him, slightly shocked. How had he gotten there without her noticing? Perhaps she had been too deep in thought to pay attention to her surroundings.

Sighing slightly in relief, Tank relaxed, and Sarge came in to sit down at the table on the bench across from her. Her dark eyes studied him as he leaned forward to brace his arms against the table.

It was almost strange to see him without his usual uniform on, and now that she saw him in only a white wifebeater and cotton pants, she could see the broad swath of tattoos that lined his shoulders, arms, and chest. Briefly, she wondered what they symbolized.

Then she decided that she would rather not know.

"It's nothing, really," she murmured in response to Sarge's question, crossing her arms and pillowing her chin on them. "I just couldn't manage to sleep, so I came up here so I wouldn't wake anybody with my tossing and turning."

Sarge nodded. "That much hasn't changed, huh?"

Tank cracked a small smile, but didn't reply. A couple of moments passed in comfortable silence. Then she suddenly spoke.

"It's getting more and more difficult to deny him," she whispered, her gaze distant as she frowned slightly at the tabletop.

Sarge shifted. "So fuck him and get it out of your system."

Tank briefly turned a glare on her friend.

"It's not that fucking simple, Dwayne!" she hissed. Then she sighed and closed her eyes. "Pun aside, you _know_ it's not that simple."

"Yeah it is," he countered pointedly. "You just won't fucking _let_ it be."

"Because if things don't work out with him, I don't wanna be someone who just screwed him 'cause I couldn't keep my hormones in check!" she retorted. "You're a guy! You might not have a problem with just going out and having a casual fling with the nearest slut, but I have a whole lot more at stake!"

Sarge didn't reply. Tank eyed him, noted the faint gleam of regret in his gaze. She groaned, and buried her face in her arms.

"You've visited a few whorehouses, then," she surmised.

Again, Sarge remained silent.

Tank sighed. "It's your life, and your body, Dwayne. Just don't call me foolish for wanting to wait."

"That day on the obstacle course," he suddenly said. "You took too long getting down to the locker room. What were you doing aside from getting an ice pack?"

Tank looked up at him in shock for a brief second. Then she saw that he wouldn't allow her to brush him off like she had earlier, and sighed, resting her chin on her arms again. She wouldn't meet his gaze.

"Like I said, I took a nasty fall and bruised my tailbone," she explained quietly. "But it also broke something else down there, something that I had wanted to protect."

Sarge listened in silence. Tank absently moved one hand to trace random patterns on the table top.

"Did you know that a girl's hymen is actually rather fragile?" she inquired conversationally. "It can be broken by things other than a man's penis. Things such as bike riding, gymnastics, horseback riding... even by taking a hard tumble."

"So that's why you took so long."

"Yeah." Her voice was soft, the admission barely louder than a whisper. They were silent for a few minutes. Then Sarge cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Well, regardless, I'm getting the men up, now," he told her, his voice back to its usual gruff tone. "Come on, I've got an announcement to make."

Tank groaned and heaved herself heavily to her feet. "We got a game?"

"Yeah."

They left the kitchen and headed down the stairs to the living quarters, not bothering to hide their footsteps. Tank sighed and went over to her locker to grab her clothes as Sarge roused the men. The squad got up with various yawns and mumbled oaths.

Tank just headed to the locker room.

She changed into her dance shorts, sports bra, and tank top before they came in, and then she simply sat on the bench that ran the length of the room, leaning her arms on her knees and bowing her head tiredly. Tank heard Reaper come in and start to dress, but didn't look up at him. Instead, she closed her eyes, finally feeling sleep creep up on her.

When Reaper sat on the bench next to her, she knew that Sarge's announcement was about to commence.

"Listen up, men," Sarge barked a second later.

_Right on cue._

"We got us a game," Sarge continued, oblivious to Tank's thoughts. "Fall in!"

Heaving another sigh, Tank yanked herself to her feet, saluted briefly, and moved lethargically over to the desk.

The examinations went quickly despite her relative sleepiness, and soon she hopped onto the examination table and Reaper, who had purposely been last in line again, pressed the stethoscope into her back.

"Take a deep breath in," he commanded. Tank started to do so, and then it turned into a jaw-cracking yawn. Reaper glanced up at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Didn't sleep last night?" he asked nonchalantly. Tank shook her head, wiping her watering eyes on the back of her wrist.

"Nah," she admitted. "Finally moved into the kitchen 'round three so I wouldn't wake anybody up."

The corners of Reaper's mouth twitched in a tiny smile. "Breathe in, then breathe out."

Tank complied without comment. Then she waited as Reaper took some of her other stats, and hopped on the scale when he told her to.

"One-twenty," she called, and then blinked and frowned at the scale. "One-twenty?"

"You practically didn't eat for a week, Tank," Reaper drawled as he typed in the numbers. "Not to mention that you lost probably a seventh of your weight in water."

Tank sighed, raising her eyebrows resignedly, and then hopped off the scale to save the document.

"Everybody's clean, Sarge," she called over her shoulder.

"Good," Sarge responded. "Suit up!"

Tank stumbled over to her locker and began to pull on her jumpsuit as everybody else did the same. It was a few seconds before she noticed Reaper staring at her.

"What?" she asked softly, glancing over at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Are you sure you'll be able to handle this mission?" he questioned, keeping his voice quiet. Tank yawned, but nodded.

"Yeah, I'll just take a caffeine pill and I'll be good to go," she muttered. Reaper frowned slightly, but didn't comment.

"Hey, Sarge?" Tank called after a few minutes.

"Yeah?" Sarge called back.

"Where we headin' this time?" There was a pause.

"And you're asking this why?"

"'Cause my sniper rifle is actually pretty fuckin' heavy, sir," Tank deadpanned as she affixed her flak vest to her chest. "And while I usually don't mind carrying it, it does slow me down quite a lot. That's one of the reasons I got shot in Venezuela."

"You don't need it for this mission," Sarge told her. Tank sighed with relief and nodded with a slight smile, attaching her submachine gun to her thigh. Then she was ready to go.

"Move out!"

* * *

_**2041 A.D. - Bonanza, Nicaragua - 2200 hours**_

Tank winced as a slug narrowly missed her ear.

They were in a place called Bonanza, Nicaragua. It was practically in the middle of nowhere, all but surrounded by rainforest. The buildings of the town proper were shabby shanties, made out of rickety plywood and rusty shingles. The cocaine plantation had been on the outskirts of the town, surrounded by a swath of thick trees. That was what the Rapid Response Tactical Squad had been sent to infiltrate.

Tank's ears rang with the sound of gunfire and bullets impacting the thick tree to her back. They'd encountered hostile activity the second they'd set foot across the boundaries of the plantation. Now she and Reaper were pinned down behind their cover, returning fire with a vengeance as the rest of the team circled around to flank the guerillas.

Reaper was panting in the humid air where he was dug in two feet to her right, and sweat ran into both their eyes. Tank could see that he was bleeding from a cut high on his cheekbone; must have gotten clipped by a bullet like she almost had.

"Hey, Tank!" Reaper called almost conversationally as he stuck his assault rifle out from behind the tree to fire off a few rounds into the enemy lines. Tank ducked out from behind her cover briefly to pick off a pair of enemies who foolishly leaned out from behind their own cover. Then she hurriedly withdrew as the Nicaraguans returned fire.

"Yeah?" she called. Reaper heaved a breath, reached into his grenade pouch, and pulled out an ST grenade. As he popped the top and primed it, Tank hunkered down against the tree, hoping that the old thing would hold against the blast.

"I've been meaning to ask you something," Reaper told her, grunting as he reached out and hurled the grenade into the midst of the guerillas' cover and then curled up behind his own tree.

"Fire in the hole!" he shouted into his comm. Tank heard various swears from their squadmates.

"What's that?" Tank asked, just before the grenade went off. Above the noise of the blast and the ringing in her ears, she could hear the screams of dying men.

"_Men, report!_" Sarge shouted into the comm in her ear.

"Reaper and Tank are unharmed, sir," Tank reported. "Took a few scratches, but that's it."

"_Jumper, here._" Jumper's voice hummed into Tank's ear. "_Me, Goat, and Portman are fine._"

"_Destroyer and Mac are good to go,_" Destroyer's voice said.

"_And Hellraiser and I are unharmed, as well,_" Sarge muttered. "_Good. Get back to work._"

A chorus of 'Sir!' went up over the comm, and Tank flinched again as another bullet embedded itself into the bark of the tree.

"There're still more of 'em out there?" she asked incredulously. Reaper grunted, and briefly left his cover to take a few potshots into the surrounding flora.

"Guess so," he replied. Tank hummed, following her boyfriend's example and firing off a few rounds to where she could see muzzle flashes coming from.

"So, what were you going to ask?" she prompted, her breath heavy. Really, she was _not _cut out for this thick humidity. It clogged her lungs, made her sweat with the heat. Not to mention that her hair was frizzing like it was nobody's business.

"Well," Reaper hedged, chest heaving as he sagged back against the tree for a breather. "There's no real eloquent way for me to ask this..."

"Then just say it!" Tank exclaimed, yelping as a bullet hit her flak vest. "Ouch, that fucker's gonna bruise..."

She vaguely saw Reaper lean out around his tree to squeeze off a few shots at the enemy.

"Will you marry me?"

Tank froze mid-shot, and then yowled in surprise and pain as another bullet caught her in the chest. It blasted her flat on her back, and dazed her for a few minutes until she finally managed to suck in a breath. Then she scrambled around so that she could press her back against her tree and gaze over at Reaper with incredulous frustration.

"I don't think now's the best time for that, Reaps!" she called, an edge to her voice. Reaper grunted, and she saw his body jerk. He seemed unharmed, however.

He pulled back behind cover to catch his breath; Tank could see a bullet embedded low in the side of his vest.

"Well," he panted, reaching up to swipe the sweat out of his eyes. He only managed to smear blood across his face. "Now seemed as good a time as any."

Tank didn't speak for a second, gasping for air. She gritted her teeth and rolled out from behind her tree, going to her knee and taking aim. She grunted, letting her flak vest take a couple of hits, and sniped out two more guerillas before she finally had to withdraw again. Tank looked around wildly, brown eyes scanning her surroundings. Then she remembered that she owed Reaper an answer.

"Yes!" she exclaimed, and then flinched as a bullet clipped the tree near her head, showering her with bark. Reaper ducked slightly and returned fire.

"What?" he demanded, his gun spitting bullets. Tank gasped through the humidity.

"Yes!" she called to him, her voice cracking slightly. "Yes, I'll marry you!"

Reaper tumbled back behind his shelter a second later, and his hazel eyes found hers, wild with the adrenaline of the battle. An instant later, more shots rang out, and bullets stopped hitting their cover. Tank knew that they were safe.

Sarge and the rest of the squad had come through for them, after all.

Sarge's voice came over the comms a second later as Tank and Reaper continued to stare into each other's eyes.

"_Area clear,_" Sarge reported. "_Reaper, Tank. Maintain a perimeter while we take care of the plantation._"

"Sir." Tank's voice was slightly dazed as she confirmed her orders.

She reluctantly tore her gaze away from Reaper's and moved out into the plantation. Tank reloaded her assault rifle as she walked, smacking the new magazine into place with a satisfying chink.

All the while, her mind whirled, trying to process what had just transpired.

Reaper had proposed?

Reaper... had proposed.

Reaper had proposed!

_Fuck yeah!_

Tank heard Sarge say that they were finished rigging the plantation to blow and that they'd retrieved the hostages that had been taken. Reaper came up behind her just as Sarge and the rest of the squad emerged from the ramshackle huts, a group of ten or so people in tow. Tank's lips stretched in a broad, elated grin as her brain finally processed that Reaper had asked her to marry him and that she had accepted.

Tank saluted Sarge as he walked up to them.

"Sir!" she greeted. Sarge nodded.

"At ease, Tank," he said. Tank dropped the salute.

"Permission to act freely, sir?" she pleaded. Sarge raised an inquisitive eyebrow as the rest of the squad exchanged curious looks.

"Permission granted," Sarge acknowledged. Tank grinned broadly. Then she abruptly spun around and all but tackled a shocked Reaper, laughing out loud.

Her actions surprised everybody, but none more so than Reaper, who dazedly caught Tank around her waist, spinning with her momentum in order to avoid falling over. Then he was further astounded when she suddenly reached up and pulled him down into a heart-stopping kiss.

Reaper's eyes were as wide as dinner plates when Tank finally let him go a few seconds later. Then he gasped when she suddenly socked him in the chest.

"I can't _believe_ you proposed during a _firefight!_" she laughed.

"Wait a minute!" exclaimed Hellraiser.

"He proposed?!" echoed Pug. Reaper blinked down at Tank, still stunned from her actions.

"Yeah," he said softly. Then a tiny smile stole across his lips. Tank grinned up at him as she finally pulled back to stand at a respectable distance from him.

"There's one thing I'm wondering, though," she told him as the group began to move back to the evac point.

Reaper looked at her inquisitively. "What's that?"

"What in the nine fucking pits of hell took you so long?!"

Reaper just chuckled in reply.

* * *

_**Disclaimer:**I don't own Doom or any of its affiliated characters or places. Nyah._

_Okay, so that one got a little graphic. First "lemon" of the story, though I'm not sure that this one actually counts, seeing as it was actually a dream. Hmm..._

_And yay, we're finally moving forward with Tank and Reaper's relationship. From here on out, you can expect to see more lemony goodness (occasionally, of course- they're not rabbits!) from time to time. Hope you enjoyed this chapter._

_Well, it seems that FFN doesn't send alerts to readers about chapter replacements, so I'll put this notice up: **GO BACK AND READ CHAPTER 25. I'VE REPLACED THE A.N. WITH THE REAL CHAPTER CONTENT.**_

_Next chapter should be posted 2-22-10._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	27. 2042 AD St Louis Missouri 1645 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return."  
–Leonardo da Vinci_

_**Chapter 26.**_

* * *

_**2042 A.D. - St. Paul's Lutheran Church, St. Louis County, Missouri - 1645 hours**_

Tank swallowed nervously as her mother, cousin, aunt, two family friends, and best friend put the finishing touches on her hair, veil, and dress. There were butterflies in her stomach and her hands were shaking. Not to mention the slight hangover that she was nursing from her bachelorette party the night before.

The date was March fourteenth, 2042.

It had been almost four months since Reaper had proposed to her during the Nicaragua mission. She had elatedly called her family after she had stepped outside the barracks that night to tell them the good news. They'd been ecstatic for her, and her mother had immediately begun talking about wedding plans.

Tank and Reaper had decided to have the wedding back in St. Louis, and after that, Tank's free time had been spent on the phone, drawing up invitation lists and discussing color coordination and food selections, and a number of other things. Most of it gave Tank a headache.

They'd settled, in the end, for a small, traditional black and white affair. And so here she was, standing in the private lounge of St. Paul's Lutheran Church in Missouri, in a long, white satin dress, having bobby pins put in her artfully-curled hair and some last-minute touches done to her appearance.

Tori, dressed in her sapphire-blue bridesmaid dress, looked up at Tank as the brunette fidgeted again. "Nervous?"

Tank swallowed again, wringing her hands. "Hell yeah."

Tori grinned. "It's not so bad, really."

Tank rolled her eyes at her blond cousin.

"I'm not scared about Re- John," she reminded herself softly. "I'm just kinda leery about trying to walk in these death-traps you guys call shoes."

She lifted the skirt of her dress slightly to reveal the shoes. They were white sandals with one-inch heels. Instead of leather straps, they had long, satin ribbons that laced up the tops of her feet and then wrapped around her calves to stop just below her knee.

Now it was Tori's turn to roll her eyes. "Come _on_, Amanda," she drawled, "you can face terrorists, eat _anything_, and run twenty miles without a rest, but you can't walk in _low-heeled_ shoes?"

Tank scowled. "It's not the heels I'm worried about," she fretted. "It's the ribbons! If they come undone- and believe me, they _will_- then I'm going to be tripping on them left and right!"

"You used to go around with your shoelaces untied all the time," Marie put in, coming around to Tank's front to put a little waterproof mascara on Tank's eyelashes. "I don't see how ribbons would be any different, really."

Tank shrugged, using all of her experience and training as a gunman to refrain from blinking away from the invading mascara brush.

"These are longer," Tank explained matter-of-factly. "And they're lighter in weight than shoelaces."

She sighed. "Do you think we can tape the knots or something so that they at least don't come undone during the ceremony?"

Amanda Mallory, also adorned in a sapphire gown, grinned and left the room. Tank knew that her best friend would come back with a roll of tape.

Sure enough, Amanda returned in a matter of moments, a highly amused and smug smile on her face and a roll of scotch tape in her hand. Tank raised an eyebrow.

"Do I even want to know?" she asked. Amanda sniggered.

"I just saw your husband-to-be in the hallway," she explained. _That_ got Tank's attention.

"Yeah?" Tank prompted, her eyes landing on her best friend as the other woman tore a piece of tape from the roll and stooped to tape the ribbons. "Well, how's he holding up?"

Amanda snorted as she tried to hold in her laughter. This, of course, made both her and Tank start giggling like schoolgirls.

"He's as white as a sheet," Amanda said. "And he's walking around like he's got a pole shoved up his ass."

Tank grinned. "It sounds almost as though he's nervous."

"Almost?" Amanda echoed, raising her eyebrows. "He looked like he was about to pass out!"

Tank chuckled, and shook her head. "You've got it wrong. With Marines like him, the more relaxed they seem the more nervous or uneasy they are. The more formal and rigid, the more relaxed."

"Yeah, well, he asked about you."

"Really?" Tank's eyebrows rose. "What'd he say?"

"He asked me how you were doing," Amanda replied. "And if you were feeling okay."

"And what'd you tell him?"

"That you're a nervous wreck, of course."

Tank blinked at her best friend. "Well, why'd you tell him that?"

Amanda shrugged. "Just did."

Tank groaned.

Then, suddenly, the preparations were finished, and Marie, Tori, and Tank's aunt Laura stepped back to admire their handiwork.

Then aunt Laura grinned, and Marie put her hands on Tank's shoulders before turning her to face the floor-length mirror that they'd nicked from one of the bathrooms and set up in the lounge.

"You're beautiful," Marie said, her voice gentle and sincere. Tank smiled at her mother, and then looked at her reflection.

In the mirror there stood a young woman. Her lean, muscular body was encased in a white satin dress that had off-the-shoulder sleeves and hugged her curves in all the right places. It flared out just below her hips and trailed to the floor in a gentle bell shape. Tank's shoulder-length hair was done up in a stylishly loose knot at the base of her neck that allowed most of her chocolate locks to tumble down her back in glossy ringlets. A couple of her curled bangs framed her face, which only had a little bit of make-up on it. Some clear lip gloss had been applied to her naturally-pink mouth, a little bit of silver eye shadow had been dusted on Tank's eyelids, and the mascara made her already long and dark eyelashes seem longer and darker than they already were. She didn't wear foundation, so the few thin scars on her cheek and forehead were exposed. She was proud of those scars, and they didn't disfigure her.

As Marie reached up to place the veil and its thin, tiara-like headband upon Tank's forehead, Tank found herself momentarily speechless.

She looked _beautiful_.

Just as Laura came over to place the bouquet in Tank's hands, Tank's sister, Mary, burst into the room. She, also, was dressed in a sapphire gown; she would be taking a role as one of Tank's bridesmaids, as well.

"It's time!" Mary exclaimed excitedly.

Tank swallowed, suddenly feeling her heart pound.

"Already?" she squeaked, and then cleared her throat, blushing from the way her voice cracked.

"Yeah!" Mary affirmed. Marie, Amanda, and Tori all laughed, and then they began to shepherd Tank out the lobby door.

Tank swallowed her nervousness and took a deep breath, employing every technique she knew to calm herself.

Then she stepped out the lounge door.

Her stomach fluttered as she walked down the stairs that would take her to the narthex, at the back of the sanctuary. Marie took a second to draw the veil down to obscure Tank's face. Then Tank assembled with Amanda, Tori, Mary, and Keith while the rest of them went in to take their seats.

As Tank went to take her father's arm, he smiled down at her from behind his glasses. He didn't say anything other than a reassuring "You'll do fine, beautiful," but Tank was grateful for his presence nonetheless.

Then the hand bell choir began to play the processional music, and they turned toward the sanctuary. Tank and Keith waited as first Tori, then Amanda, and then Mary made their way down the aisle, following Tank's young second cousin, Sienna, who was acting as the flower girl. A little boy, called Nevan, walked down the aisle after Mary, acting as the ring bearer. Then came Tank's cue.

A sudden burst of nervousness made her eyes go wide, and her stomach leapt into her throat. However, Keith seemed to sense his daughter's sudden unease, and laid a hand on top of hers, which was wrapped around the crook of his left elbow. The reassuring touch gave Tank the strength to take the first step down the aisle to her future.

She could see through the veil well enough to make out where she was going, but couldn't make out any distinguishing features. Tank knew the layout of the sanctuary like the back of her hand, however, and also knew that her father would never lead her astray.

Her carefully-controlled breathing was coming heavy from her nerves by the time that they reached the bottom step of the chancel and she and her father stopped. Tank watched as a dark form, whom she realized was Reaper after a second, descended the three steps to the nave floor to take her hand. Tank squeezed Keith's arm in a combination of a thank you and a goodbye.

She glanced up at her father's face one last time.

Then she released his arm and took Reaper's hand in her own trembling fingers.

His grip was firm but not crushing, not painful in the least, as he led her up the steps to the flagstone floor of the chancel. To either side were a pair of burnished handrails, and past those stood the empty lectern to the left and the pulpit to the right. Before them, standing like a reassuring monument of Christ's love and sacrifice, was the altar.

Above that on the back wall, beneath a magnificent stained-glass window, hung a beautifully simple metal cross. It was made of a metal that had burnished-bronze sheen, adorned with the pictures of an open door and a lamb among others, with a vine twining along the crosspieces, symbolizing a certain parable.

Tank and Reaper knelt, hand in hand, on the top stair. It was only then that Pastor Scott Smith, the senior pastor of the church, stepped out in front of them. He was the one who would wed them.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," he said. Tank bowed her head with the invocation, crossing herself, and then murmured along with the rest of the gathered when they replied appropriately.

"Amen," they intoned.

"Dearly beloved," Pastor Smith began, "we are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony. Should any of those present have any _legitimate_ reason why these two shouldn't be wed, speak now or forever hold your peace."

Tank heard someone blow their nose loudly, and glanced at Reaper from under her veil. From what little she could see of his face, Tank could tell that Reaper seemed to be smiling.

After all, the nose-blower had sounded suspiciously like Pug.

Once a sufficient pause had passed, Pastor Smith addressed Reaper. "Lift the veil, and look upon your bride."

Tank took a deep breath, feeling her pounding heart leap into her throat, and turned to face Reaper. A small movement at the bottom edge of her veil caught her eye; Reaper's work-roughened fingertips took the light, gauzy material and slowly lifted it up over her head until her face was exposed.

Tank smiled shyly up at her husband-to-be. He smiled back, the small stretching of his lips revealing more emotion to her than a full-faced grin ever would.

All of her uneasiness evaporated.

Tank had to admit that they'd made a good choice when they chose the traditional wedding colors. She had always thought that Reaper looked good in black. At the moment, he was drop-dead sexy.

The rest of the ceremony seemed to fly by to Tank, and then came the declaration of intent, and then the vows. She focused, for the most part, on the feeling of Reaper's work-roughened hand in hers, on his lively hazel eyes, and on trying to relax a bit. Tank recited her vow when it came time for her to do so, having memorized it weeks beforehand. Then came the exchanging of the rings.

Nevan came forward with the small pillow, upon which lay a pair of simple, smooth golden bands. Tank took a deep breath as the boy came forward.

Reaper took the smaller ring in his hand and then took Tank's slim left hand in his own. He stared into her eyes as he slid it onto her finger, reciting his betrothal vows.

Then it was Tank's turn.

She took the ring meant for him in her right hand, and then took his left hand in hers.

"With this ring, I, Amanda Halley, pledge myself to you for as long as we both shall live," she said softly, gazing up into his eyes. She finished the binding vow, and then they turned back to Pastor Smith for the pronouncement of marriage.

"With the exchanging of these vows, symbolized likewise by the exchange of these rings, you are bound before the eyes of God and of the state as husband and wife," Pastor Smith solemnly intoned.

Tank sighed in relief. It was almost over.

Then came the prayers, and the recitation of the Lord's Prayer.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven," Tank prayed. "Hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen."

After that came the benediction, the last part of the service.

"The Lord bless you and keep you," Pastor Smith said. "The Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious unto you. The Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace."

"Amen," Tank murmured.

Then it was over.

The recessional music that they'd chosen began to play, and Tank turned with Reaper, hand in hand, to take their first steps as a married couple.

Tank later swore that the tears in her eyes were from dust.

Two passing hours found them entering the reception hall of the hotel that they would be staying the night in. Tank and Reaper were immediately bombarded by Pug, who almost knocked them to the ground with his enthusiasm, and by a wave of cheers and clapping. Only their extensive training as Marines allowed them to stay on their feet.

"Behälter! Reaper! Ich bin für dich beide sehr glücklich!" Pug exclaimed. Tank laughed when she saw the puffy redness of his eyes.

"Pug, have you been crying?" she asked.

"Ja," Pug sniffled. Tank giggled again.

"I have no clue what you just said," she said quietly to him, "but I think I get the general gist of it. Thank you, Pug."

She pulled him into a one-armed hug, which he returned before embracing Reaper, as well. Then Pug backed off and Tank led Reaper over to the designated 'newlywed' table.

That was when Keith got up to the podium for a speech. By the end of it, Tank had tears in her eyes.

Next was her grandfather. Daniel's short, but heartfelt statement left Tank squeezing Reaper's hand in an effort to hold her sniffles at bay.

Third were Amanda, Tori, and Mary. The trio left Tank in stitches from the various humorous reflections they made about her. She also turned beet red when Tori made some insinuations about her and Reaper's wedding night.

Tank inwardly swore that she would pay her back, somehow.

Last was Sarge.

He looked rather awkward, standing at the podium in the tuxedo he had worn as Reaper's best man, and swallowed before sticking a finger in his collar.

"Well, I have to say," he began, his dark brown eyes landing on Tank and Reaper. "When Amanda and John told me they were dating, I was shocked. So imagine my surprise when I found out they were _engaged._"

He smirked slightly at them. Tank felt her face heat, somehow knowing what was coming.

"You wanna hear the story?" he asked. David, Amanda, Mary, and Tori all raised their glasses.

"Hear, hear!" they cried. The rest of the gathered chuckled.

Sarge leaned away from the microphone, and then barked in his I'm-your-commander-obey-me-or-die voice, "Hellraiser, front and center!"

Tank caught movement from one of the tables. It was Hellraiser, and he was heading up to the podium. Her blush deepened. Across from her, Reaper groaned resignedly.

"Okay," Sarge said when Hellraiser joined him with a salute. "I'll now turn the tale over to our mutual friend and squadmate."

Sarge stepped back from the podium, allowing Hellraiser to take the stage. Hellraiser grinned and waved cheerfully to the crowd.

"Hey, everybody," he greeted. "My name's Abel Sartorius." He paused for effect, his eyes twinkling. "Folks call me Hellraiser, and I'm told it's for good reason."

This was met with a few appreciative chuckles, and then Hellraiser continued.

"Well, about four months ago, we were sent on a mission in Nicaragua," he explained. "I won't tell you what it entailed 'cause you probably don't wanna know."

He took a breath as he waited for the chuckles to die down again.

"So anyway," he continued, "we're on this mission, and Tank- that's Amanda- and Reaper- that's John- are pinned down behind some cover by our opponents."

Hellraiser must have seen some concerned looks directed towards the newlyweds, because he waved his hands in a placating gesture.

"Folks, if you know what Tank and Reaper are like during combat, then you know that they are _trouble magnets_," he said, "especially when they're paired together for a mission. This is a commonplace occurrence for them."

He raised his eyebrows before dryly stating, "Trust me, this even happens when we go _paintballing_."

Amanda, David, Tori, and Mary all laughed out loud at this, as did most of the rest of RRTS Six. Goat, Jumper, Mac, Destroyer, and even Portman had been invited, and all of them had made it out. Hellraiser was sitting at that table, also, when he would eventually take his seat. At the center of their table had been placed two framed pictures, one of Indian and the other of Hound. It was Tank's way of remembering her lost friends.

"Anyway, Tank and Reaper are pinned down behind some trees while the rest of us are busy flanking our enemies," Hellraiser continued like nothing had happened. "So we've all got our comms up and running, right?"

"Hell yeah!" snickered Portman.

Tank, Reaper, and the rest of RRTS Six all turned to him in unison and chimed, "Shut up, Portman!"

This produced a laugh out of the rest of the people gathered there, and Portman sulkily closed his mouth.

"Anyway," drawled Hellraiser, his mouth twitching. "As we're performing this flanking maneuver, we're hearing them talk to each other over the comms. As you can probably imagine, various swear words were used as well as some other colorful language that I shall not mention in the current mixed company."

Tank finally reached a point where she thought that her face couldn't get any redder.

"Then, all of a sudden, I tuned in on their conversation in time to hear Tank saying- and I quote- 'I don't think now's the best time for that, Reaps!'"

Hellraiser trailed off as several people raised their eyebrows. Across from her, Tank watched Reaper bury his face in his free hand. From what she could see, his face was red to the roots of his hair.

Hellraiser chuckled when he saw their reactions, and Tank returned his gaze with a look that promised death and retribution.

He continued anyway. "As you can imagine, that got my attention. Well, as much as it could during a firefight. So I listened in. The next thing I heard was Reaper _panting_ that 'Now seemed as good a time as any'."

Now Tank spoke up defensively. "_You_ try conducting an operation in a rainforest, and then tell me that it doesn't make you short of breath!"

Hellraiser chuckled. "So true," he admitted. "However, Tank, you _must_ appreciate where I'm coming from. You were _both_ breathing so loudly and quickly that I could _hear_ you over the comms, and since I hadn't tuned in until that point, you can _imagine_ what it sounded like."

Tank heard Tori snicker, and slapped a hand to her forehead in mortification.

Still chuckling, Hellraiser kept up his narrative.

"So I heard all that," he said, "and then I heard Tank shout 'Yes!'"

He paused for effect and to let the scandalized gasps die down. A smirk spread across his face as his twinkling gaze landed on the newlyweds again. Behind him, Sarge sighed. Tank glared at him.

"And then Reaper shouted 'What?!' and then Tank shouted yes again," Hellraiser said, gesturing for emphasis. "Then, imagine my surprise when the next thing she said was 'Yes, I'll marry you'!"

Now a few relieved chuckles sounded through the room. Tank only felt more dread creeping up on her.

Hellraiser was a good storyteller, after all, and the part she had most to be embarrassed about was coming up.

Hellraiser paused again, staring thoughtfully down at the podium.

"So we cleared the area of the hostiles," he continued solemnly after a moment. "The reports came in, and Sarge told Tank and Reaper to maintain a perimeter while we set the charges to blow the place up."

He finally looked back around at the crowd. Tank could see her father watching her, and David was on the edge of his seat, listening raptly. Tank could see Tori bouncing her baby in her arms, her blue eyes bright with anticipation as she watched Hellraiser. Amanda and Mary were both calm as they waited for the end of the narrative.

Hellraiser observed all of this, and continued accordingly.

"So we finished our objectives," he said. "Then we came back to Reaper and Tank. Tank saluted Sarge when we got there, and then asked for permission to _act_ freely. Now, I could tell that Sarge was a little confused, but he granted permission anyway.

"Then Tank suddenly spun around and tackled Reaper."

Hellraiser raised his eyebrows for emphasis. "Then she kissed him."

A few chuckles and knowing looks were sent Tank's way. She now knew that she had been wrong earlier: her face _could_ turn several shades redder than it had been.

"Then," Hellraiser went on, chuckling. "_Then_, she slapped him."

A couple of gasps rang through the room, and Tank looked to their sources to see Amanda and Mary affecting scandalized looks. Tank rolled her eyes at them.

"And then she said, 'I can't _believe_ you proposed during a _firefight!_'" Hellraiser imitated Tank's vocal inflections perfectly, and she groaned as her father, mother, cousin, siblings, and best friend all erupted with laughter. She even caught sight of some of her relatives from her mother's side of the family laughing out loud.

"And after we started for the evac point," Hellraiser intoned, his eyes glinting in a way that Tank didn't like at all. "She said that there was one more thing she was wondering. Reaper asked her what it was, and she replied with- and please excuse my French- 'What in the nine fucking pits of hell took you so long?!'"

Tank thought she would die of mortification.

Hellraiser chuckled, the sound echoing through the room over the howls of mirth being produced by Tank's family and friends.

"And that, folks, is how Reaper and Tank got engaged," Hellraiser concluded with a roguish grin. He bowed himself away from the podium to a round of applause, and went back to his seat. Then Sarge took the spotlight again, and stared thoughtfully at Tank.

"You know, Amanda once told me that her mother could be the biggest basket-case she had ever seen, and that she had seen a lot of basket-cases."

Tank blushed at the comment.

"But for the past four months, I swear that _Amanda_ has been even more of a basket-case than even _my_ mother- God rest her soul- and my mother was the Nazi of all Nazis when it came to me cleaning my room," Sarge said.

His eyes twinkled slightly as he finished over the sound of laughter. "Tank, Reaper, here's to you two lovebirds, to good times, to relaxation, and to a good roll in the hay."

Tank shot up out of her seat.

"Dwayne Casimir Mahonin!" she yelled. "I'm gonna _injure _you _so _bad...!"

Sarge smirked and stepped down from the podium to a good round of applause and roars of laughter.

"I pull rank, then," he called to her. "Have fun."

Tank balled up her fist and shook it at Sarge. "I'll get you _somehow!_ Just you wait!"

She was tugged back into her chair by a chuckling Reaper, who ran his hand over his pink face before looking up to where the DJ was getting up to the stage.

"Well, everybody, we're going to serve dinner, now," the man said. "We will hold the first dance in about twenty minutes."

Perfectly on cue, a group of waiters and waitresses entered the room, trays of entrees on carts in tow.

Tank sighed in relief. "Thank God," she muttered to Reaper. "I'm hungry enough to eat a _horse._"

He smiled at her in response. "I hear you there."

Dinner went quickly for Tank, though she savored every bite of the chicken cordon bleu and accompanying Caesar salad. Her gaze never left Reaper's throughout the meal.

Tank's stomach fluttered again when she saw how his eyes smoldered quietly at her.

Then, suddenly, it was time for the first dance, which was traditionally shared by the bride and the groom. Tank took Reaper's hand when the DJ nodded at her, and gently led her new husband out to the dance floor.

Tank saw him clench his jaw a little when she drew him close, putting her hands on his shoulders as he placed his hands around her waist. Then she turned to nod at the DJ.

The gentle music of The Veronicas' _Speechless_ began to echo out of the speakers.

Tank hadn't told him which song she'd picked for their opening dance. Instead, she'd kept it a surprise. She, however, thought that the lyrics fit her and Reaper remarkably well.

As they began to gently sway to the tune of the guitar, Tank thought she even saw him smile a little bit.

About halfway through the song, Tank slipped her arms around Reaper's neck and leaned her head against his chest. He briefly tightened his grip on her in response; she felt his hand slide up and down her back in a comforting motion.

"You okay?" he asked softly. Tank hummed.

"You know," she murmured, "the first time I heard this song I was about sixteen. I didn't realize why at the time, but it really touched me."

Reaper chuckled a little, and she felt him rest his chin on the top of her head. "It kind of fits."

Tank shrugged. "It's true."

She began to softly quote along with the lyrics of the chorus. "You leave me speechless when you talk to me, you leave me breathless when you look at me, you manage to disarm me, my soul is shining through..."

Tank pulled away to look up into Reaper's smoldering hazel gaze. "I can't help but surrender..."

She leaned in close. "My everything to you..."

Then she kissed him, soft and sweet, in the middle of the dance floor. The wolf-whistles from Hellraiser and Portman fell on deaf ears, and Pug's sniffling went ignored. All there was was him and her, Reaper and Tank, John and Amanda, in that moment.

And how sweet a moment it was.

* * *

_**Disclaimer:** Own Doom, I do not. Yoda, I am not. Sue me, you will not._

_Yay for Windows 7 and Microsoft Office 2007! I love them to death, though they're the reason why this chapter was a week late. Please pardon the wait, but I hope that the spell-check and grammar-check I now have on my computer will add to the overall quality of this story. (I wrote the whole fic on WordPad way back when, O.o)_

_And so now they're married. Yay. Next chapter? You'll see, but I'll warn you now that there will be a LEMON! *blushes*_

_I wonder, am I the only one whose teeth were aching from the sugary sweet fluffiness at the end of this chapter? Though I have to say, writing Hellraiser's part was one of my favorites. XD_

_A big thank you goes out to **angel19872006** and **-lover** for reviewing the last chapter. I sincerely hope that this one met your expectations. XD_

_Next chapter should be posted 3-15-10._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	28. 2042 AD St Louis Missouri 0000 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

_"Unbutton your clothes, undress your soul, show them your vigor. Are those inhibitions easiest to fear?"  
__--Our Lady Peace, 'One-Man Army'_

__

**Chapter 27.**

* * *

_**2042 A.D. - St. Louis, Missouri - 0000 hours**_

The door swung open in front of them after Tank swiped the keycard through the electronic lock.

She squeaked in surprise when she was suddenly swept off her feet into Reaper's strong arms, but she giggled nonetheless, wrapping her arms around his neck. Tank was still chuckling as he carried her over the threshold of their hotel room and closed the door behind them. Tank nuzzled his neck with a happy grin, hearing and feeling him turn the lock.

"I'm surprised I'm light enough for you to carry me over the threshold," she murmured. Tank heard and felt Reaper chuckle.

"You're only a hundred and forty-five pounds, Amanda," he returned amiably. "You're a fucking feather merchant. Drop-dead gorgeous, maybe, but a feather merchant nonetheless."

"Thanks," Tank hummed, and turned her nose into his neck, closing her eyes and inhaling her husband's musky scent. She felt almost as if she was floating as he carried her further into the room to sit down on the edge of the bed with her in his lap. It was then that she pulled away to look up at him.

"So, do you wanna shower first?" she asked. Reaper shrugged, scanning her face.

"I wouldn't mind kissing you senseless, first," he admitted quietly. Tank grinned and chuckled, leaning in for a brief, chaste kiss.

"I have no objection to being kissed senseless," she murmured into his mouth, "but I need to get this dress and makeup off, not to mention wash this ridiculous hairspray out of my hair."

Reaper hummed, kissing her again. He seemed almost hungry, which Tank could understand.

She wanted him, too.

"Soon, love," she whispered. "I won't be long."

Reaper grunted, and then pulled away to bury his face in Tank's neck. She giggled as his breath tickled her skin, and gingerly extricated herself from his embrace. He stared up at her like a child denied his favorite treat.

"Fifteen minutes," she murmured to him. "Give me that, please."

Reaper sighed. "If I must," he muttered. "I've waited over a year for you. I guess fifteen more minutes won't hurt."

Tank kissed him again, and then reluctantly pulled away. "Thanks."

Reaper leveled a smoldering gaze at her, and she swallowed.

"Just know that you're going to have to pay for it," he warned. "And that you're going to enjoy every second."

Tank grinned, getting to her feet. "Better get ready, then," she countered, "'cause I've got something I think you're gonna like."

Then she stepped away from him, grabbed the duffel bag that she had brought to Missouri with her, and retreated into the bathroom, feeling Reaper's smoldering stare on her the whole way.

The first thing to go after Tank closed the door behind her was her wedding dress. The zipper came undone fluidly, and then she slipped out of the dress to allow it to pool around her ankles. This left her in her strapless bra and her panties, which soon joined the dress on the floor before she hung the white satin up on a hanger that she had stashed in her duffel. Last to go were the ribbon-laced sandals.

Tank reached into the shower to start the water running, and then, as she waited for it to heat, she turned to her bag again, pulling out the things she would wear after she was finished with her wash. She laid them on the sink, and then made quick work of the bobby pins in her hair.

Once her hair hung in loose-but-stiff curls and ringlets down her back, pin-free and with only the hairspray to keep it together, Tank stepped into the shower.

Tank wasted no time in washing the makeup off of her face. She had to use soap to get the mascara off, but the lip gloss and the eye shadow came off easily enough. Then Tank shampooed her hair as quickly as she could.

It was to her dismay when she realized that her hair still had hairspray in it even after she washed it.

"Sweet Jesus," Tank muttered, squirting another glob of shampoo into her palm so that she could wash her hair again. "How much fucking hairspray did they damn well _use?_"

Nevertheless, Tank finished with her wash and stepped out of the shower, hairspray-free, within ten minutes. She hurriedly dried herself off and wrapped her hair up in her towel to dry. Then she shoved everything but her wedding dress into her duffel bag and turned to the garments on the sink.

She hadn't been brave enough to go with the skimpy number that Tori had suggested she use, but had instead opted for a simple pair of black boyshort underpants and a skin-tight purple camisole that had lace lining the neckline and straps. She wouldn't wear a bra, however. She hoped that that would work well enough.

Tank dressed quickly.

With a victorious sigh, she picked up her duffel bag, pulled the hanger with her dress over her shoulder, and left the bathroom.

Reaper's eyes landed upon her as soon as the door opened. Tank swallowed at the intensity of his gaze, and then she swallowed again when it suddenly sharpened.

If he had smoldered at her before, Tank mused, his eyes were all but blazing at her now.

"Shower's free," she said, her voice quiet. Reaper's stare didn't waver.

"You took seventeen minutes," he muttered, a small smile quirking his lips. Tank blushed under his scrutiny.

"They used enough hairspray on me to put a new hole in the ozone layer," she said dryly. "I had to shampoo it twice- count 'em, _twice_- to get it all out."

"I see," Reaper said, his voice a low growl. Tank rolled her eyes.

"Go shower," she growled playfully. Reaper frowned slightly at her, and she placed a hand on her hip after dropping her duffel on the floor against the wall. She noted, in the back of her mind, that he had gone ahead and turned down the blankets so that they were folded over the foot of the bed.

"Even though you look drop-dead sexy in that tux, John," she began, eyeing Reaper up and down where he was sitting on the side of the bed, one ankle crossed over his other knee. She didn't miss that he had taken off his shoes, already. "I am _not_ trying to get you out of it."

He tilted his head to the side. "Why not?" he asked. "I took off the tie at the reception."

Now it was Tank's turn to scrutinize him. Having seen him fully naked before, it was not hard for her to undress him with her eyes. She took her time, and it was almost two minutes before she replied to his question.

"Because if I try to take you out of that suit, it's going to end up on the floor in pieces," she said, her voice low and serious. Reaper raised his eyebrows minutely.

"I guess I'd better take it off, then," he said. Tank smiled a little, and then stepped to the side, sweeping her hand toward the bathroom doorway.

"Be my guest," she said. Reaper chuckled lowly, and then slowly got to his feet to cross the room, stopping in front of his bride. Then he leaned down and placed a sweet, teasing kiss on her lips.

Tank moaned slightly into his mouth after a second, and then began to reach up to wrap her arms around his neck. However, he caught her hands in his and pulled away. She leaned up, trying to maintain the kiss.

He broke it off with a tempting smirk. Then he turned and entered the bathroom, leaving Tank pouting petulantly. She turned to hang up her dress with a huff, and then went and sat on the side of the bed, drawing her right leg up to tuck it underneath herself while she unwrapped her hair, rubbing it vigorously to get it as dry as she could.

When it was only slightly damp, Tank hung her towel up on the back of the desk chair since Reaper was using the shower, and set to brushing the tangles out of her hair.

She had just finished when the bathroom door opened again and Reaper stepped out, clad in a tight black Underarmor shirt and a pair of black basketball shorts. Tank eyed him with a small smile on her face. Her tongue flicked out to wet her lips as she saw the damp sheen to his skin and the way that the moisture darkened his hair.

"Hey, John," she called quietly. Reaper eyed her again, his gaze so intense that Tank knew, _knew_, that he was undressing her with his eyes, just as she had done to him seven minutes earlier.

She swallowed.

Reaper slowly crossed the room to stand over her, and Tank felt her mouth go dry as she saw the smoldering blaze in his hazel eyes. She ducked her head, feeling somewhat self-conscious under his scrutiny as she took a deep breath.

His hand came under her chin, upturning her face so that she met his gaze again.

"Don't look down again, Amanda," he whispered as his thumb stroked her cheek. "You're beautiful."

Tank swallowed again. Then he leaned down and captured her lips with his.

The kiss started out chaste, but slowly it became more passionate, more involved, as Tank opened her mouth and ran her tongue across his bottom lip, begging for entry. Reaper wasted no time in granting it.

As they kissed, their hands weren't idle. Tank raised herself up a little bit so that she could slip her arms around her husband's neck. She rubbed his shoulder gently with her right hand. It only took a second for her left arm to withdraw so that she could cradle his cheek in her palm.

She gasped quietly into his mouth when he slowly leaned down toward her so that she laid back slightly on the bed and he was seated on the very edge of it. His hands found her waist, gripping her gently but firmly.

Tank moaned softly with pleasure when he trailed his hand up her side to cup her breast, and she nipped his lower lip, sucking on it to nurse the hurt when he hissed slightly. However, when he retaliated with an attack on her mouth that left her breathless, Tank pulled away from him to stare into his eyes.

While they'd been occupied with the kiss, Tank's hand had slipped down to caress his chest, and she had leaned back so that he was settled between her legs, his left hand holding him up where it was pressed against the mattress. Both of them were breathless, their lips swollen, and Tank's lower abdomen was aching.

"John," she breathed softly. "Am I dreaming?"

Reaper's response was to lean down for a bruising kiss that had her whimpering as he grabbed her hips and pulled them so that they met his. Tank moaned when his arousal pressed against her inner thigh.

When he ended the kiss a second later, he pulled away just far enough so that he could speak.

"This isn't a fucking dream," he said, his voice low and husky. Tank shivered slightly, and then gasped when he lowered his head to lay a line of hot, wet kisses down her neck. She groaned, images of her first dream of him flashing through her mind. Tank wasted no time in reaching down to the hem of his skintight shirt, drawing it up towards their heads in an effort to divest him of it.

Reaper complied eagerly, parting from her skin only long enough to get the shirt off over his head. Then he moved in upon her again, his hands drifting up underneath her tank top to massage her breasts, tweak her nipples.

Tank was panting in under ten seconds.

"John!" she gasped when he nipped her in the crook of her neck. It hurt for a second. She moaned when he opened his mouth and pressed his velvety tongue to the spot, lathing it with long, smooth strokes.

Then she growled, tired of being on the bottom, and grabbed him by the shoulders, throwing her left leg over his hip.

Reaper had only a second to process what was going to happen before Tank flipped him bodily so that he landed, flat on his back, in the middle of the mattress. Then she straddled him, placing her hands on the mattress to either side of his head, and leaned down to capture his mouth in a mind-blowing kiss.

She ran her hands down his chest, deliberately taking her time so that she could memorize every curve and dip and rise and twitch of his muscles, every scar that marred his otherwise smooth skin. In the meantime, Tank stroked his tongue with her own, savoring the taste and texture of him so that she would never forget this night.

After all, this night was special. It would never come again, and Tank wanted it to last.

Reaper groaned when her hands drifted lower, smoothing over the hard plane of his stomach to his hips, and then to his waistband. He reached up, caressing Tank's back. Her camisole ended up on the floor half a minute later.

Tank shivered as the cool air of the room hit her skin, and goose bumps shot up her arms and across her chest. Then she moaned again when Reaper's hands covered her breasts, feeling heat pool between her legs. She arched into his touch.

A gasp escaped Tank's mouth when Reaper suddenly flipped them again, landing almost heavily upon her. She reached around him to clutch his back, trying to pull him even closer than he already was.

"John," she panted as he dipped down to latch onto one of her breasts. "John, I _want_ you..."

"You can still speak straight," he observed. His voice was slightly muffled, with her breast in his mouth as it was. "I'm not doing my job right."

Tank found herself speechless a second later when he ran his hands down to her hips, and then dipped the fingers of his right hand down between her thighs to 'test the waters', so to speak. All she could do was gasp and whimper slightly as he probed her.

"J-John," she stammered, her eyes wide as her chest heaved underneath his ministrations. She unconsciously spread her legs slightly wider to allow him better access.

"That's better," he mumbled, licking her taut nipple one more time before he switched breasts.

Tank thought that the aching in her lower abdomen was going to break her. It was hot, it was tight, and it made her want release. It made her want to cry, want to scream his name, want to... want...

Tank didn't know _what_ she wanted a second later when he pressed his fingers against that special, hypersensitive bundle of nerves at her base. She just moaned with ecstasy.

"J-J-John," she gasped out, her fingernails digging into his back. Reaper grunted, and sucked in a deep, sharp breath through his nose. Then he left her breasts and came back up to kiss her again.

"That fucking _hurts_, you know," he grumbled against her mouth. Tank growled in response, and dug her fingernails harder into his back, causing him to arch against her with a faint groan.

"Then fuckin' _deal_ with it you fuckin' pussy," she hissed, and then flipped him again and pinned him so that she was on top.

It was _her_ turn.

Tank sat herself on Reaper's thighs, just below his erection, and straddled him. She looked down at him. Braced herself on his hips. Then she rubbed herself against the bulge straining against his shorts with a long, satisfied moan.

Reaper hissed and lifted himself into a sitting position. Tank shifted her hands to his shoulders and pressed her breasts to his chest. He grabbed her bottom through the fabric of her skivvies, pulling her more firmly against him. Tank didn't fight him, but rather leaned forward and began to kiss him everywhere she could. She didn't stop rubbing herself against him.

Soon Reaper's chest was heaving. When Tank looked up at his flushed face, she could see that a slight sheen of sweat had accumulated across his skin, could taste the salt on her tongue as she swirled it around one of the nipples on his broad, muscular chest.

Really, Reaper was such a _manly_ man...

...and the ache between Tank's thighs _burned_ for him.

She parted from him and pulled away so that she could sit comfortably on his slightly-spread thighs where they were bent at the knee. Then she looked down into his passion-glazed eyes.

Her hands slid down his torso to the waistband of his basketball shorts.

The smooth fabric slid easily down over his hips, then his ass, and over his erection to pool at his thighs between Tank's legs. She took a deep breath at the sight, simply admiring it for a moment.

Then she found herself panting when his hands slid into her boyshorts, caressing the smooth skin of her bottom and hips. Reaper's fingers slipped into the crevice between her legs, causing Tank's thighs to reflexively clench and lift her off of him, and he slipped the garment down her body as she arched into his touch, throwing her head back with a breathless cry of ecstasy.

Tank was going to fucking _kill_ him if he didn't fuck her senseless _soon._

She told him as much a second later when she yanked her leg up to pull off her panties, kicking them away to be lost in the jumble of clothes on the floor. Reaper just growled, and helped her to finish ridding him of his shorts.

Then, suddenly, Tank was on the bottom, again, but this time she didn't mind. Especially not since he had pinned her with his whole body. Especially not when the tip of his erection was pressed against her wet opening in a way that made her squirm beneath him.

"J-John," she moaned as he roughly grabbed her breast again. "N-Now...!"

Reaper lifted his head to look into her eyes. Then he raised himself off of her to support himself on his forearms.

He wanted this, too.

With him perched above her like that, Tank couldn't help but lick her swollen lips in anticipation and slight anxiety. Slowly she raised her hips to meet his, positioning him at her entrance so that she groaned, and threw a leg over his hip.

Reaper entered her in a single, slow, smooth thrust that made Tank arch into him with her head thrown back in ecstasy and pain, her mouth open in a silent cry of pure rapture. Reaper's own long, soft, satisfied groan fell on her ears.

Her imagination had been right.

"A-Amanda," he panted. Tank couldn't reply. Her fingers clutched his shoulders in a white-knuckled grip, and her legs pulled him closer and closer, until he was buried to the hilt inside of her, filling her, stretching her, _completing_ her...

They stilled. Waited. It took Tank a few long seconds to adjust to his size, squirming weakly with the overload of sensations.

Tank finally remembered how to breathe when Reaper began to withdraw.

"F-Faster," she gasped as he thrust in again. The heat in her crotch was building, flaring, tensing, _tensing_...

Reaper rammed into her, finally leaning down to kiss her again. He bit down on her lip none-too-gently as he thrust again, groaning deeply, and Tank opened her mouth with a gasp, feeling him withdraw and then complete another stroke.

"Faster," she panted into his mouth. "Harder, deeper..."

Reaper complied, his hands finding her hips and angling her for better leverage as he continued to pound into her. Then it was all sweat-slick bodies sliding over and in each other, and delicious friction that made Tank whimper helplessly.

Tank felt that knot of tension in her belly grow more in size, heat, and in how much it fucking _hurt_.

She let out a quiet sob.

As each of her cries increased in volume, Reaper's thrusts increased in pace and strength, going deeper into her each time. With each stroke, Tank was brought closer to that invisible edge.

She took a flying leap toward it when Reaper hit a particular spot that had her seeing sparks. Tank gasped and whimpered in pure ecstasy. Her thighs clenched on his hips, and Reaper continued to thrust, in, out, in, out.

It was so _right_.

Tank drew in a loud gasp a few seconds later when that horrible tension in her lower abdomen began to intensify at an astounding pace, that amazing, delicious heat that flared into a blaze so intense that she had to throw her head back so that she could breathe.

Reaper returned to her breasts with a covetous groan, caressing, licking, suckling, nipping the soft skin. Tank found that she couldn't breathe through the fires of her arousal.

The heat intensified, the tension knotting so hard that Tank was sure that she would snap in two as he thrust rapidly into her.

Then she felt something give as Reaper hit that special spot again.

"J-J-J-John...!" she stuttered. Her word ended in a breathless moan. "I-I'm-!"

Tank's sentence dissolved into a loud, long groan while every muscle in her lower abdomen, thighs, and butt clenched in unison, sending her over the edge into what she could only later describe as pure, unadulterated pleasure.

Tank heard his masculine groan, heard him call her name, felt his thrusts increase in pace for a second, and then he stiffened above her. Tank managed to look up at him to see his eyes wide, his features frozen in a surprised expression tinged with blissful, mind-blowing pleasure.

Something hot flooded into her. Tank couldn't think through the ecstasy that her climax provided, just arched into his body, pressing herself against him as another wave stole through her.

It lasted for almost three minutes. Then Tank finally felt her orgasm taper off, and she and Reaper collapsed to the bed, struggling for breath, still entwined.

For several long moments, they simply laid there, too dazed and sated to move. Reaper's head was pillowed upon Tank's breasts and her legs were wrapped tightly around his waist. His arms were wrapped around Tank's lower back. Her hands still gripped his shoulders, spasming faintly every few seconds.

Then Tank moaned faintly and moved her hands up to run them through Reaper's short hair.

"John," she whispered breathlessly. Reaper inhaled deeply, and lethargically lifted himself off of her with his forearms so that they could look each other in the eye as he gingerly withdrew himself from her.

Tank scanned his face. His hazel eyes were contented and tired. His full lips were red and swollen from their passionate kisses, and sheen of sweat glazed his skin.

After a second, Tank smiled, feeling whole, satisfied, relaxed, _content_. She reached her free hand up to caress his cheek, the stubble along his jaw line and around his mouth rough against her calloused fingertips. Tank trailed her thumb across his lips, marveling at how soft and moist they were. Her fingers smoothed across his brow, and she leaned up to press a slow, tender kiss to his mouth.

"I love you," she mumbled against his lips. Reaper sighed contentedly, and slowly shifted his weight so that he could reach up and cradle her cheek in his palm.

"I love you, too, Amanda," he returned softly, his voice still rich and husky from sex. Tank sighed into him. Then she sagged back into the mattress, suddenly tired. Reaper had the good thought to turn off the lights and pull the covers over them before he lay down next to Tank.

She immediately wrapped her arms around him and buried her nose in his chest, tangling her legs with his. He smelled musky like he usually did, underneath the heavy scent of sweat and sex. His arms came around her, and Tank felt him bury his nose in her hair.

They were quiet for several long moments, simply breathing, recovering. Then Tank spoke.

"I was right," she whispered. Reaper grunted, and ran his hand through her tousled hair.

"'Bout what?" he prompted. He sounded almost sleepy.

"'Bout it being sweeter if we waited," Tank murmured. Then she sighed contentedly, and withdrew from his chest so that she could lay her head on the pillow and look her husband in the eyes. Reaper stared back through the dimness. Tank could see him swallow.

"Thank you, Mr. Grimm," Tank whispered with a small smirk, snaking her hand out to run it through his messy brown hair. He hummed, closing his eyes and leaning into her touch.

"You're welcome, Mrs. Grimm," he said. Tank could see his lips twitch into a smile. Tank grinned.

"I like the sound of that," she mused with a quiet chuckle. He hummed again, and leaned in to kiss her gently.

"I'm glad you do," he whispered against her mouth. Tank sighed, closing her eyes and leaning into his kiss. Her hand ran through his hair again, eventually coming to stop to press gently into the back of his neck.

Eventually, a soft growl escaped Reaper's throat. Tank chuckled slightly, gently tucking her leg over his hip so that she could rub her heel against the back of his knee. Reaper growled again, louder.

A second later, Tank found herself giggling as she was turned onto her back again, Reaper pinning her with his body. She looked up into his eyes as he pulled away. There was a playful hunger there that made her grin.

"Have you had enough," she quipped, "or are you thirsty for more?"

Reaper groaned and shook his head with a small smile at the old, overly-used quote, but dove down for another heated kiss nevertheless.

Really, Tank inwardly mused, he could have just asked.

* * *

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Doom or any affiliated characters, and you know it._

_*BLUSH BLUSH BLUSH* First lemon. I hope I got things right and wrote them well. *hides behind Tank's cat, Binx* Please don't kill me. Criticism is welcome, but please don't kill me._

_Well, we're almost halfway through this (surprisingly long) story. It's not fully written, yet, but I'm still trying to figure out whether I should end it after the movie or keep going. I'll warn you now, if I keep going, I'll probably have to make it a crossover story. O.o Any opinions? Regardless, even if I end it after the movie, it's still well over 300 pages long on MS Word 2007, with one-inch margins and Arial 10 point font. So... with Arial 12 point font (which is the default for most word processing programs) it's... over 500 pages long. Wow. I need a life. With the extended ending, it's 403 pages long (10-point font) and 539 pages long (12-point). So no, we're not even close to finishing this story._

_MWA HA HA HA HA!_

_Ahem._

_Thank you to both **st. elmo-lover** and **angel19872006** for reviewing the last chapter. I'm glad you enjoyed it, and I hope you liked this one, too. Another thank you goes out to all the other readers out there who aren't reviewing. You know who you are, and you have my gratitude for putting up with my writing even though you haven't said a word to me._

_Next chapter should be posted 3-22-10._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	29. 2042 AD RRTS Barracks 1800 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_The thing about family disasters is that you never have to wait long before the next one puts the previous one into perspective."  
–Robert Brault_

__

**Chapter 28.**

* * *

_**2042 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 1800 hours**_

A loud oath rang through the area.

For a second after her back hit the ground, all Tank could do was stare up at the sky in dazed confusion. Then she sucked in a breath and rolled to her knees with a groan, rubbing her back.

"Ouch, that's gonna bruise," she muttered.

"You okay?" Tank looked up to see Reaper standing over her, some concern in his hazel eyes. Tank sighed, and nodded.

"Yeah," she replied. "My foot slipped."

Reaper's lips twitched with the shadow of a smile. "Come on, you'd better catch up before Sarge decides to lay into you."

"Yeah, yeah," she grumbled, but got stiffly to her feet nonetheless. Then they jogged off, gradually building to a run.

It had been three weeks since their wedding. They'd flown back to Twentynine Palms two weeks after the ceremony to be met with a God-awful amount of teasing and a number of pranks, both good-natured and malicious. Tank was still plotting against Sarge and Hellraiser for their comments during their speeches at the reception.

Tank scowled at the memory. Reaper glanced over at her and saw this.

"What's the matter?" he asked, his words clipped by the pace of their run. Tank growled.

"I still can't _believe_ that they said those things!" she fumed breathlessly. "It was our fucking _wedding reception_, not some... some...!"

She trailed off with an inarticulate cry of frustration while Reaper just chuckled at her.

When Tank looked over at him questioningly, he shot her a pointed look before he turned his gaze back to his footing.

"_I_ still can't believe you shoved _cake_ up my fucking _nose_," he said. Tank lost her anger at that comment, and laughed out loud.

"At least it tasted damn good, right?" she teased. Reaper briefly turned a disgusted look on her.

"Not after it's been in some poor bastard's nose, it doesn't," he retorted. Tank grinned.

"So you admit to being illegitimate, then?" she asked, reaching out to poke him in the side. Reaper squawked- yes, _squawked-_ with indignation.

"I never fucking said that!"

"You practically did," Tank chortled, jumping up a series of rocks. "You called the sentence's subject a poor bastard, and since you were referring to yourself, that means that you called _yourself_ a bastard."

Reaper sighed breathlessly as he vaulted over a crevice to land safely on the other side. Tank was not far behind, but when her foot hit the edge of the narrow crack in the earth, the dry soil crumbled beneath her weight and sent her tumbling down into it with a surprised yelp. Her hands and arms scrabbled for purchase at the lip of the crevice, but she was unsuccessful.

Reaper whirled around just in time to see Tank's head disappear beneath the surface of the earth.

"Fuck!" he swore, diving for her hand. He just barely managed to grab her wrist before she fell, but her glove came off in his hand and she plummeted with a shout. A second later, Reaper heard the impact of her body on the floor of the crevice.

"Tank!" he screamed down into the ravine. "Tank! Tank, answer me, damnit!"

There was nothing for a moment, nothing save for the sound of the wind blowing through the dry terrain of Joshua Tree National Park. Reaper felt his heart pound. He scrambled for his flashlight. It almost slipped out of his grasp, but he managed to catch it just in time, and he flipped it on, aiming the beam down into the dark ravine.

Tank was sprawled, spread-eagle, at the bottom, some fifteen feet down. From what Reaper could see, she wasn't moving, wasn't breathing. He couldn't make out any blood, but that didn't reassure him.

"Tank!" His voice was getting hoarse from the tightening in his throat. "Tank! Amanda!"

There was no response.

Reaper swore violently, turning his attention to the ravine wall. It was craggy, broken from an eon of weathering.

Reaper's hand was shaking as he switched on his comm. "Sarge! Sarge, do you copy?"

There was a second of silence. Then, "_Loud and clear, Reaper. What's the situation?_"

"Tank is down, repeat, Tank is down," Reaper said. It was a struggle to keep his voice level and objective.

"_What the fuck happened?!_"

"The edge of the ravine crumbled when she landed on it," Reaper reported. "I grabbed her, but her glove slipped off and she fell into it."

He angled his moonbeam down to Tank again. "She's not moving. It doesn't look like she's breathing."

Reaper took a deep breath to calm himself, and then laid himself prone to crawl to the edge of the ravine. "I can climb down to her."

"_Do it,_" Sarge ordered. "_I want a full report when you get to the bottom. We'll be there in five minutes._"

"Copy that," Reaper said, already starting down. He swung one leg over the edge of the crevice, sought and found a foothold, and then he lowered himself down, moving cautiously. He found another foothold, lowered himself another few inches. Stretched his hand down for a handhold. Moved his other foot.

And so it continued for several tense minutes.

Then a groan from the bottom of the ravine startled Reaper. He whipped around to look down at Tank. However, his sudden motion caused the rock underneath his hand to crumble.

Reaper gasped in shock as he slipped, and then fell the remaining five feet to the bottom of the crevice. He grunted when his feet hit the sandy ground, and his knees buckled and he pitched backward briefly before he regained his balance. Then he was able to look around.

The floor of the ravine was about seven feet across from wall to sandy wall, and was mostly covered in loose dirt and pebbles. Tank was sprawled about five feet to Reaper's right. He took the remaining distance between them in two steps, fighting to remain calm.

Tank groaned again as he knelt next to her, and she weakly brought her arm up to press her hand against her forehead.

"Tank!" Reaper exclaimed. "Tank, why didn't you respond?!"

"Shut the fuck up, John," Tank moaned. "I think I blacked out, and my _head_ is fucking _killing_ me."

Reaper swallowed, and lowered his voice, but that didn't keep the profound relief out of it. "Can you feel your extremities?"

Tank sighed, and bent her legs up at the knees before using her hands to lever herself into a sitting position.

Then she looked pointedly at Reaper, held up both hands, and wiggled all ten fingers at him.

"This answer enough for you?" she snarked. She groaned, and bent over a little so that she could rest her elbows on her knees. Reaper breathed a silent sigh of relief.

"Tank, I need you to look at the moonbeam," he said. Tank glared at him, and he frowned sternly. "I'm not gonna tell you again, Amanda."

Tank sighed, and then looked at the flashlight when Reaper turned it on again. Her pupils contracted properly, though she winced a little at the sudden onrush of light.

"Good," Reaper muttered, and then put the flashlight away again.

"Reaper!" The shout came from above, and Reaper looked up to see Sarge silhouetted against the evening sky, red from the setting sun.

"Sarge!" Reaper called back. "She's okay!"

Tank flinched from the shout. "Keep it down, dickwad..."

Reaper looked at her. "Love you, too, jarhead. Love you, too."

"Get your asses back up here, then!" Sarge called down.

Reaper glanced at the crumbling ravine wall, and then turned to Tank. "You'd better cover your ears."

Once Tank had done so, Reaper looked back up at Sarge. "Can't, Sarge! Wall's unstable!"

"Then how the hell did you get the fuck down there?!"

"I fell, sir!"

Reaper heard Sarge's disbelieving scoff. "Well, stop lollygagging and get your fucking WM topside!"

Tank managed to look up at Sarge, and subsequently raised her hand in a one-fingered salute. "Don't be a shit-brick, Sarge!"

She cringed at the volume of her own voice. Reaper laid a hand on her shoulder as she ducked her head again, and then looked back up at Sarge. "Can you see if it goes out somewhere?"

Reaper saw Sarge turn to look at someone over his shoulder for a second, and then the older Marine turned back to Reaper.

"It's a mile in either direction!" Reaper swore quietly at this. "It's either that or you climb back up!"

"Fuck," Reaper muttered. "We can't fucking _climb_ this, Sarge! We're gonna have to walk!"

"Meet back at the Humvee in an hour or we're leaving you!" The ultimatum was shouted down to them as Sarge disappeared over the lip of the ravine.

"Fuck," Reaper hissed again, knowing that Sarge was _not_ joking. Then, as the sounds of Sarge and the rest of RRTS Six moving out met Reaper's ears, he turned to Tank.

She groaned. "We just got Sarged..."

He fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"You heard him, Amanda," Reaper said, stooping and pulling her to her feet. His hands were gentle as he tenderly brushed the sand off of her black uniform. "Let's get going."

Tank sighed, and then allowed Reaper to lead on, heading west out of the ravine.

They walked at as brisk a pace as Tank could manage. The ravine floor was tricky to walk on, with loose shale and scree all over the place. Several times, Reaper swore he saw a snake or two sunning themselves where the fading light actually reached the bottom of the crevice.

Eventually, the ground started to slope upwards. Reaper had to help Tank over some of the steeper inclines, since her footing wasn't as sure as his was at the moment. However, they eventually made it out to stand in the open starlight.

"Jesus," Reaper muttered, gazing upward at the heavens. "It's been a while since I've seen this many stars at once."

Tank followed his gaze, but grimaced after a second and looked back down. "They're beautiful, yes, but we need to make it back to the Humvee."

She checked the time from the watch on her wrist. "We've only got fifteen minutes left."

Reaper looked back down at her and nodded. "Can you run?"

Tank took a deep breath, assessing her condition. "I'll need a whole fucking slew of painkillers tonight, but yeah, I think I can."

She took a deep breath, and turned to go. However, Reaper's hand on her elbow stayed her momentarily, and he gently turned her to face him. She was about to ask him what the matter was when he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers.

When he pulled away a second later, the words that left his mouth were an order. "If you feel like you can't go on, then tell me and I'll fucking _carry_ you."

Tank sighed, but nodded. Then they turned back east and headed off at a ground-eating jog. Reaper got his flashlight out and held it so that they could see where they were going.

It took them almost ten minutes to reach the place where they'd parked the Humvee almost three hours earlier. When they got there, they could see the rest of RRTS Six gathered around the vehicle, waiting for them. Jumper was the first to see them. His face split in a broad grin as he became aware of their approach, and he turned to wave at them.

"Reaper! Tank!" he called. "Welcome back to civilization!"

Reaper heard Tank groan, and slowed his pace to keep level with her when her speed suddenly decreased.

"You okay?" he asked, seeing her bend over slightly as she ran. Tank's breath came heavy as she replied with a vague nod. He let it slide, and the next three steps brought them to the rest of the team.

"Made it with two minutes to spare," Sarge said, looking up from his watch with a raised eyebrow.

"Fuck you, too," Tank gasped out, bending double as soon as she stumbled to a stop. Reaper laid a hand on her back.

"You're _not_ okay, Tank," he muttered to her, and then drew her upright and pulled her arm over his shoulders. "Come on."

Tank sighed. "Thanks for cuttin' me a huss back there, Reaps."

Reaper eyed her drawn features as they piled into the Humvee with the rest of the squad. "No problem."

He sat her down on one side of the Humvee's cargo area, and then sat down next to her, across from Pug and next to Jumper. Tank was seated behind the driver's seat, and she immediately ducked her head when the overhead light in the cab came on.

"Your head still hurt?" Reaper asked nonchalantly. Tank didn't answer. The light went out as Goat started the engine, and began to head back to the barracks. Reaper noticed that Sarge was sitting in the passenger's seat.

"Hey, what model is this, again?" Reaper looked over to Mac, who had asked the question. The normally taciturn Japanese man was seated across from Tank, behind the passenger's seat.

"It's an M998 HMMWV Cargo and Troop carrier," Pug said. "Pretty high-speed, huh?"

"Huh," Mac said, and then fell silent. There was quiet for a moment before Tank suddenly chuckled slightly, and everybody looked over to her. She had her arms propped on her knees, and had her left palm pressed to her temple.

"You know, Mac," she ventured quietly, "for an RRTS member, you seem pretty _normal_ compared to the rest of them."

Mac just smiled. Everybody there knew that Mac was just about as screwed-up as the rest of them, even Tank, who'd had a good childhood and had only joined the Marines because it had been her lifelong dream. A person _had_ to be fucked in the head to even _think_ about joining RRTS.

They just all dealt with stress in different ways. Tank, generally, would play solitaire, write fiction stories, or go out to the shooting range. Portman was a pervert who liked a good romp. Pug would practice knife-fighting, or he would rant in German for a good hour or two. Reaper would disassemble, clean, and reassemble his guns until he was de-stressed enough to speak calmly. Destroyer liked to play baseball, knock over a few lamps every now and then, that sort of thing. Goat had his Bible, and prayed when he was stressed. Sarge... did whatever it was that Sarge did. Jumper had a tendency to "accidentally" drop things on people's feet. And Mac was a practical joker.

Needless to say, Tank and Reaper had made it a point to avoid Mac after missions.

Tank grunted, and straightened up briefly before she winced and turned to lay her head on Reaper's shoulder.

"Tank?" he inquired uneasily. "How's your head?"

"I have a massive-ass migraine right now, Reaps," she sighed. "I'm trying to keep as still as fucking possible."

Reaper raised his eyebrows. "I'd offer to go massacre whatever caused it, but I don't think I can kill a _ravine_."

"Shut the fuck up," she growled. "You're hurting my head."

Reaper's lips twitched in a tiny smile as she swore softly.

Yep, Tank would be fine...

...after a lot of painkillers and a nice, _long_ nap.

* * *

_**2042 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 2030 hours**_

"Hellraiser?"

Hellraiser looked up at Tank from where he was packing his possessions into a seabag, and smiled at her.

"What's cookin', Tank?"

Tank rolled her eyes where she was standing, dressed in tan camouflage fatigues and a loose, black, ribbed cotton tank top, at the foot of his bunk. She had come over from cleaning her sniper rifle and her submachine gun.

"Nothing's cooking. I was just wondering where you're going," she explained.

Hellraiser shrugged as all the eyes in the room fell upon him. "I got transferred."

_That_ got everybody's attention.

"What?" Tank asked incredulously. "Where?"

"They're sending me out to Paradise Island," Hellraiser replied. Tank's jaw dropped. It was practically a _busting down._

"Why?" asked Pug from where he was lounging on his cot, reading a magazine.

Hellraiser shrugged again. "Something about combat stress reaction, or other. They think that being here under Sarge's command is gonna make me snap or something. They've got me on the grinder with the boots teachin' 'em how to gung ho."

Then Reaper spoke up from where he was sitting in the alcove on the north side of the room cleaning his guns. "Guess somebody's gotta teach those snuffies to make sure they're not gagglefuck."

Tank smiled a little at that, but she looked at Hellraiser sadly, nonetheless. "We'll miss you, here. It's no fun being at the depot."

Hellraiser laughed.

"You kiddin'?" he cackled. "I'm gonna have so much fun torturing the FNGs I'm gonna be sendin' you fucking _postcards_ made out of photos I take while they're doing incentive training."

Everybody had to laugh at that.

"Throw some Jesus shoes at 'em!" encouraged Mac. Jumper shot up from his rack excitedly to add his own two cents.

"Slip some Jell-o into some fart sacks!"

"Send the barracks queen a picture of Tex and write 'She's got you beat' for a caption," Tank suggested dryly with an evil smirk.

The room erupted with howls of mirth.

Goat snorted ungracefully and buried his nose in his Bible. Tank could see his shoulders shaking in what seemed to be silent laughter.

"Put some dog shit in somebody's BEQ," he murmured when the chortles had died down. "See how long it takes 'em to notice the smell."

Hellraiser laughed. "Sure will," he said, "when I'm not gettin' made fun of bein' called a big green weenie."

"Just give the brats hell from us with love," Tank said, "and we won't have to come and do it for you."

"Don't worry," Hellraiser chortled. "I'll give the broke-dicks hell, too."

"Good onya, mate," Tank said with a wink, imitating an Australian accent. Then she added, in her normal mode of speech, "Just don't forget the rest of us poor fuckers out here in Bumfuck, Egypt."

"Right," deadpanned Portman. "Send us a postcard of you and some naked babe that says 'Greetings from Paradise'."

Tank rolled her eyes while the men just laughed. She exchanged a glance with Reaper that soon turned a lot more heated than she had meant it to be. She looked away, cheeks slightly red.

She _needed_ to get him alone, soon.

"I just hope you guys don't get death by PowerPoint." Hellraiser's voice drew Tank out of her musings, and she looked at him curiously.

"Why'd you say that?" she asked warily. Hellraiser grinned at her in an almost evil manner.

"I hear tell you guys are gettin' a new mission, soon," he said, "and that it's gonna be a gung ho multi-unit one."

The rest of the team all groaned.

"I fucking _hate_ those kinds of missions," Tank grumbled. "It's like _babysitting_."

She sighed, and went to flop down on her bunk. Hellraiser chuckled, and went back to his packing.

A few minutes passed in relative silence. Then Tank sighed again, sat up, and scooted to the edge of her sack. She quickly tugged her boots on.

"If anybody needs me, I'm gonna go for a run," she said. Pug looked up from his magazine to stare at her.

"Why?" he asked incredulously. Tank finished tying her shoelaces, and stood up, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. She looked like an excited child.

"I had a cup o' joe earlier," she said, "not to mention a few pieces of chocolate. I got a sugar high I need to burn off. Anybody wanna join me?"

She looked imploringly around at the men. They all stared back at her in silent incredulity. Finally she sighed.

"Guess I'll go alone, then," she muttered, and headed for the stairs. It was after she disappeared up them that Reaper heaved an exasperated sigh and got up, heading in the same direction.

"Where you goin', Reaps?" asked Destroyer. Reaper cast the large man a glance as his boots clunked on the stairs.

"Tank's a trouble magnet," Reaper deadpanned. "_Somebody's_ gotta make sure she doesn't break something."

He continued up the stairs, calling his last sentence over his shoulder. "If we're not back in three hours, send out a search party. Look for dead bodies."

Mac and Jumper chuckled at the morbid joke, while Portman looked fairly sulky.

"Yeah, sure," Portman muttered. "Goin' for a _run_, they say. More like goin' out for a good screw-"

This time, the whole of the remaining squadmembers spoke in unison.

"Shut the fuck up, Portman!"

* * *

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Doom, so fuck off._

_Sorry for the lateness. I have no excuses to offer. The only thing I can blame in this instance is my own forgetfulness. I totally didn't realize (**really** realize) that yesterday was Monday despite it being the first day of my school week. I only figured it out just about five minutes ago. Hence the reason why this chapter isn't edited the way I usually like to edit the chapters. I'm in the middle of an essay and had to post this before I forgot again, so please excuse any errors you may find. Thanks!_

_Warning: Next chapter will be another lemon._

_Thanks to **Lady Nightlord** for reviewing the last chapter! I'm really glad you like this story that much. XD I totally know how you feel about searching for good fanfiction, especially in the Doom section! Most of the stuff with Reaper in it has him and Sarge as being gay with each other, or (heaven forbid) it's sex between Reaper and Sam. Gag. And a lot of the other stuff (with the notable exceptions of **Hidden Relevance** and **askita**) is written rather poorly. I finally just got fed up with looking and wrote my own. ^.^_

_Next chapter should be posted 3-29-10._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	30. 2042 AD RRTS Barracks 2030 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

_"She had fire in her soul, it was easy to see how the Devil, himself, could be pulled out of me."  
--Carlos Santana and Nickelback, 'Into the Night'_

__

**Chapter 29.**

* * *

_**2042 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 2030 hours**_

Tank sighed in the cool California night air as she closed the door behind her. She had popped in on Sarge to let him know where she was going, and so here she was, standing all by her lonesome outside the barracks in boots, fatigues, and a tank top, ready to run.

After all, the bum scoop she had given her squadmates about coffee and chocolate had been just that: bad information. Tank had wanted to run in order to leave behind the sadness she felt at having another of the squad members leave. It would have been nice to have some company, though.

Shaking her head at her faintly lonely thoughts, Tank headed over toward the northeastern edge of the compound.

The barracks for Rapid Response Tactical Squad Six were located just inside the northeast boundary of the main Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center Twentynine Palms, near the intersection of Sturgis Road and Adobe Road and just south of the helipad. Further to the north was the Robert E. Bush Naval Hospital. About eight hundred feet to the northeast were the foothills of a mountain, where Sarge liked to take the squad for runs on days when they didn't go to Joshua Tree National Park.

It was these foothills that Tank now made for.

The moon was full, and the sky was relatively clear, though the air was charged, as though with a coming storm. Thousands of stars dotted the heavens, and the earth away from the artificial glow of the base was bathed in a silvery glow that was as bright as day. With a sigh, Tank resigned herself to a beautiful, but lonely, run.

However, just as she was about to cross Sturgis Road, Tank heard the barracks door open and close again in the quiet night air. She turned around in time to see Reaper leave the blue-white glow given off by the porchlight. He was headed toward her.

Tank was grateful for him in that moment, moreso than she usually was. It had been two months to the day since their marriage- today's date was May fourteenth- and, while Reaper had been as loving as he could be while on duty, the rather public layout of the barracks had afforded them absolutely no time alone.

After having known his touch, known _him_, Tank inwardly mused that it was a wonder that she had survived this long without jumping him. But no, right now she was going to go for a run like she had said she would. If Reaper was planning on joining her- and it looked like he _would_- then she would welcome his presence.

If something happened while they were out, then all the better.

"Hey," she greeted when he reached her. "You gonna run with me?"

Reaper shrugged, his boots thumping faintly on the tarmac. "Somebody's gotta make sure you don't break your feather merchant neck."

Tank grinned.

"Ever the badass," she observed. She paused a beat. "Well, then. Shall we?"

Reaper didn't reply, so she bounded off, her boots pounding against tarmac until she got to the other side of Sturgis Road and passed the helipad. Then the only sounds Tank could hear were the crunch of her feet on sand and hard-packed dirt, and Reaper's heavy footfalls just behind her. Somewhere in the far-off desert she heard the soft hoot of an owl as it hunted for lizards.

The night was cool, a balmy fifty-three degrees farenheit. Perfect for a long-distance run like she was planning.

Tank led Reaper across the remainder of the flatlands to the foothills, selecting a little-used trailhead that she had been wanting to explore. It was one that switchbacked up the mountain to the summit, and had a goodly number of obstacles in the path, things such as boulders, dry creekbeds, and the occasional ravine, like the one she had fallen into just a week past.

It made her heart pound with eager anticipation.

The time passed slowly, though the ground practically flew by beneath their feet. Tank guided Reaper along the trail as though she knew it like the back of her hand. After a mile of the rough terrain, Tank's breath was beginning to get heavy, and she could feel sweat condensing on the skin between her breasts, beneath her sports bra, under her arms, and in between her shoulder blades. She mused silently that it wouldn't be long before her tank top was dark with the liquid.

With each beat of her feet against the ground, Tank could hear Reaper's measured breathing, feel her heart beat. The elation of running for the sake of _running_ made her want to laugh out loud just for the simple joy of it. Before her, every rise and dip in the earth was made clear by the silvery light of the moon and the stars. The fleetness and surefootedness that she felt coursing through her body meant that Tank never once slipped, stumbled, or fell.

Eventually, as they passed the first hill and came to the base of the mountain, Tank finally gave in to her urge to laugh, and she spread her arms out for balance as she sprinted down a short decline, giggling like a schoolgirl all the way. She paused for a brief second at the bottom to wait for Reaper.

He was smiling as he caught up to her, and Tank grinned broadly as she turned and dashed up the next leg of the trail.

She panted as she leapt up an old rock fall, boulders bigger than she was strewn in a haphazard fashion across the path. By the time she crested the last rock, her legs burned with fatigue and her chest heaved. Reaper was hot on her heels, his own breath heavy.

Then they were almost at the summit, and Tank slowed to a walk in order to cool down without her muscles cramping. Reaper sidled up beside her as she led him up the well-lit trail to the very peak of the mountain.

At the summit, there was a large, relatively-flat stone, weathered from eons of exposure to sand and wind. Tank sat upon that, upturning her face to the sky with a contented sigh.

"It's so beautiful, tonight," she murmured, gazing up at the stars as Reaper came to take a seat beside her. "Look, there's Polaris. And Venus, and Mars."

She raised her hand and pointed them all out in turn, pausing on the last one as her thoughts took a more melancholy road. Tank's hand came down to clasp her other, but her brandy-brown gaze lingered upon Mars.

"Do you ever miss it?" she asked softly. Reaper shifted quietly beside her.

"Mars?" he prompted. "Never. My parents?"

He paused, and Tank looked over to him to see that he had followed her gaze. A faint, troubled frown had taken up residence on his handsome visage.

"Always," he admitted, his voice quiet. "Sam? Yeah, I miss her, too. But never Mars. Never Olduvai."

Tank cocked her head at him, her expression slightly sad. "Why?"

Reaper shrugged. "After mom and dad's accident, all the memories, the good and the bad, all just kind of took on a negative light. I went through the Ark, and never looked back."

Tank studied him for a minute. "Any other reasons?"

Now it was Reaper's turn to hesitate.

"Space is cold," he finally said. He wouldn't meet her eyes.

"That's what I've heard," Tank whispered, gazing at him. "Did you ever find warmth?"

Reaper didn't answer for a moment. Then he looked back down at his wife.

"Not 'til I met you," he answered. Tank couldn't tell whether he was telling the truth or if he was just flirting.

"John," she murmured sadly. Reaper shook his head, leaning closer to her.

"No more talk," he breathed. Then he kissed her, gentle and slow.

Tank responded in kind, sliding her arms around his neck so that she could press herself to him. His arms snaked around her waist, caressing her back for a minute before he eventually lifted one of them to cradle her chin.

Tank felt herself becoming aroused rather quickly by even those simple touches. She attributed it to having forcefully remained celibate for two months. Still, she pulled away with a gasp after a moment to stare into his eyes. Then she stood up and moved around in front of Reaper.

"Let's make this last," she whispered. Then she tucked a strand of hair, which had fallen out of her braid, back behind her ear. She trailed her fingertips down her cheek, down her neck, down her chest, just like she had done so many months ago in Missouri when they first started dating.

Reaper's eyes followed her hand, his gaze intense. Tank stopped at the first button of her fatigues, and slowly undid it. They slipped down her hips even with that tiny loss of tension, leaving them hanging almost dangerously low on her waist.

Tank's gaze was slightly sultry as she moved forward, Reaper's eyes following her the whole way. Just when her knees touched Reaper's, she spread her legs apart and continued forward to kneel upon the rock, straddling Reaper's slightly-spread thighs. The hard stone hurt her knees a bit, but when she reached a point where she was pressed flush against him, she slowly relaxed to sit upon his lap. She could smell his sweat, feel the heat and the firmness of his body. Her lower abdomen fluttered.

"Come on, Reaper," she breathed, running her hands down his chest. "What do _you_ want? You wanna take it slow? Or do you wanna ravish me? Come to think of it, I could probably do you, first..."

He grabbed her face roughly, bringing her down for a searing kiss that had her moaning. Her hands gripped his back, and it was a struggle for her not to dig her fingernails into him. Instead, Tank ran her hands up and down his back, memorizing every dip of every muscle. She relished how he twitched under her touch.

Then Reaper broke off the kiss to trail his nose down her neck and back up, placing his lips at her pulse point and sucking a little. Tank moaned and arched into him, pressing her flush against his body. His erection dug into her core through their pants.

He slipped his hands up underneath Tank's shirt, massaging her lower back, her stomach, her shoulders. Reaper's deft fingers ducked underneath the racerback straps of her bra to press her chest to his, and Tank moaned loudly when he left her pulse point to press hot kisses all down her neck to the exposed portion of her chest. He slid his hands around her sides to cup and massage her breasts underneath the pads of her bra, continuing to kiss as much of her exposed skin as he could. His breath was hot on her skin when he pulled his mouth away for a few quick gasps of air.

Tank felt herself burn even as his breath cooled her sweat-slick skin. Seriously, two months without his touch was two months too long. She needed him, _now_.

Tank lifted herself off of him just long enough to undo the button of his fatigues and unzip his fly. She parted his pants to expose his throbbing erection to the air. Then she unzipped her own fatigues, undid the second button, and wrapped her arms around Reaper's neck.

"I love you, John," she panted, brushing her lips across his. "And I need you..."

He planted a tender kiss upon her mouth. "Love you, too."

Then Tank lifted herself up off of his lap and maneuvered her pants around his erection so that his tip was positioned at her entrance. She groaned faintly when she realized that her panties were in the way.

Reaper, however, growled, and his hands flashed down to her hips in a heartbeat. Tank heard the sound of ripping fabric; a second later, Reaper pulled the remains of her panties out of her fatigues to discard them on the ground beside their feet.

"Well, that's one way to debrief someone," she muttered, slightly dazed. Then she moaned loud and long when Reaper lowered her onto his erection. She breathlessly sighed with ecstacy as she was deliciously stretched, and she heard Reaper groan when she took him in. He rested his chin on her shoulder, his arms wrapping around her lower back, and they just sat there for a minute, savoring the feeling of being _one_, again.

Then Tank panted a few times and lifted herself off of him with shaking legs only to lower herself back down while he thrust upward. She gasped as the angle he used hit her special spot, and then she whimpered when he did it again, and again, and again.

His own, lower-pitched grunts and his rough panting spurred her on. Tank felt herself growing hotter and hotter, felt the delicious friction between them decrease a little as she got wetter and wetter. To compensate, she began to move faster, her quiet cries gaining in frequency and volume.

And then suddenly she was _there_, and she arched into Reaper with a long moan as she came, clenching around him, trembling in the cool night air and the searing heat that passed between them. Reaper gasped a few times, thrusting into her almost thrice more before he bowed into her from the force of his release.

For a moment, all was still, and they sat there, shaking, trying to get their breath back.

It had been as good as the first time, if not better.

After almost ten minutes had passed, Tank raised her head from where she had buried her face in the side of his neck, and looked down on him. Reaper's lips were reddened from their kisses, his skin gleamed in the moonlight. Tank could see that his eyes were closed. His soft puffs of breath floated across her neck and shoulder, warm and welcoming.

"John," she whispered. Reaper cracked his eyes open, and inhaled deeply before straightening up.

"Amanda," he murmured in return. Tank sighed, leaned her forehead against his, and caressed his back with one hand.

"Thank you," she breathed. "I've been needing you..."

Reaper closed his eyes again, leaning forward to steal a brief kiss. "It's been too long."

"I am _not_ waiting two months again to have you," Tank murmured somewhat breathlessly into his mouth. "We have _got_ to get out more often."

Reaper was silent, pulling away from her to lay his head on her shoulder. Tank smiled at the way he seemed to just want to hold her. She wrapped her arms loosely around his shoulders, and leaned down to plant a light kiss upon his neck.

All too soon, however, their moment was interrupted, though not by any living thing.

Tank first noticed it when the wind began to pick up and a cloud drifted across the moon. She didn't say anything at first, but ignored it in favor of sighing into her husband's skin. His warmth was intoxicating. She could get drunk off of his scent alone. She just snuggled further into him, relishing his embrace.

However, when something wet suddenly landed upon her bare arm, Tank finally looked up, alarm spreading through her.

Clouds, thick and heavy, had obscured the moon and starlight, having come in on the fast-paced wind. Around Tank and Reaper, tiny dark spots were appearing on the ground and plants.

It had started to rain.

Tank groaned, lamenting upon how the timing couldn't have been worse, and sat up fully, gently caressing the nape of Reaper's neck.

"John," she murmured quietly. "John, we have to go, now."

Reaper grunted. "Why?"

Tank blinked. "Why?" she echoed. "It's starting to rain, John!"

"So?"

"I don't know about you, but I have no desire to get sick." Tank sighed when Reaper made no effort to move.

"So we get sick," he muttered. "I just want a little while longer with you, Amanda. No squad, no pranks, no teasing, no worrying about anything. I..."

Tank finally sighed, and relented as the rain began to really come down.

Within seconds, they were soaked to the skin, but Tank wasn't cold, wrapped up in her husband as she was. In fact, she was quite comfortable, once she managed to push away the dull ache that was settling into her knees from kneeling on a rock for so long.

A while passed, and Tank became more and more soaked. She felt Reaper's breathing gradually even out, and she was sure that he was asleep. She grimaced, feeling a chill creep down her spine. Finally, she squeezed his shoulders again.

He grunted sleepily, and then sucked in a surprised breath and bolted upright.

"John, we have to go," Tank whispered, putting her hands on either side of his rain-slicked face. "This rain is gonna make the ground unstable. We gotta go 'fore we get caught in a mudslide or something."

Reaper groaned faintly, wincing a little as a drop of water splashed onto his cheek and ran down his face. "You're right."

Now it was Tank's turn to groan, realizing that they were still connected.

"Reaper," she gasped. "John. We're still..."

Reaper wordlessly began to kiss her neck, and Tank moaned slightly when his hand also dipped between her thighs. She swallowed, blinking rainwater out of her eyes, and her breathing rate quickly elevated. Tank ran her hands up Reaper's neck to bury them in his hair, arching into him with a breathless sigh while fire pooled between her legs.

It wasn't long before she found herself moaning his name above the sound of the pouring rain, and even less time until she felt herself drawing near to that peak which was slowly becoming familiar.

"Amanda," Reaper groaned into her ear. With a gasp, Tank felt him thrust into her, and realized that her ecstacy must have aroused him, as well.

The rainwater, cold as it was, provided an excellent contrast to the heat between her and Reaper, and it hightened her senses so that every nerve ending in her body tingled. With every thrust that Reaper gave, Tank felt her breath grow shorter. That knot inside of her grew tighter until she thought that she would snap.

This time, surprisingly enough, Reaper was the first to come, giving an inarticulate yell as he thrust up into her one last time before ejaculating. Tank felt his heat flood into her, filling her, completing her, despite the coldness around them. Then she fell against him with a long moan as she came, as well.

When her orgasm tapered off two minutes later, Reaper slipped out of her with some apparant regret. They took a couple of minutes to recover, and then Tank stiffly extricated herself from his arms, wincing as she stretched her legs out.

Reaper stood, as well, and they made themselves decent again. Tank stuffed the remains of her panties in one of the larger pockets of her fatigues. Then they headed back to the barracks.

The trail was more difficult to traverse, this time, since the ground was wet. Tank slipped more than once; one time landed her in a mud puddle almost as big as she was. Reaper was hiding a smile when he crouched at the edge of the puddle to stare at her.

"Oh, yeah," Tank grumbled, ineffectively shaking mud off of her hands. "Laugh it up, furball."

Reaper raised an eyebrow. "'Furball'?"

Tank sighed. "What can I say? My best friend growing up was a Star Wars junkie."

Reaper chuckled quietly, and reached down to give Tank a hand up. He ended up face-down in the mud next to her when they both slipped in the mud and fell in. Reaper came up coughing and sputtering and sneezing, but Tank was giggling at the way his face was caked with the thick, red-brown substance.

"Not so fun, is it?" she asked, chuckling. Reaper gave her a one-fingered salute, unable to get enough breath to reply.

Tank rolled her eyes. "As great as fucking you senseless in this mud pit would be, Reaper, I'm starting to get swamp-ass. Get your breath back and let's get going."

He gave her the one-fingered salute, again. Tank just chuckled and sat there, in the mud, while her husband methodically cleared his eyes, mouth, and nose of mud. Once Reaper could see again and breathe without choking, they carefully got to their feet and slogged out of the sludge.

The rest of the jog back to the barracks was taken in silence. Twice more they fell into the mud. Once they had a rather close call when the ground that they'd just been standing on suddenly gave an unearthly groan and started to slide. They sprinted to safety, and then bore witness as the mudslide furiously swarmed the valley below.

Tank was a little shaken by the near miss. She just brushed it off, though, and wrapped an arm around Reaper's waist. He looped an arm around her shoulders, and they walked off, wary of the ground they walked upon.

It was almost 2200 hours when they finally made it back to the barracks, waterlogged and covered head to toe in the red-brown mud formed from the clay-rich soil of the region. It was still pouring when Tank and Reaper entered the atrium of the barracks, tracking bootprints and water all across the floor. Sighing, Tank looked over at Reaper.

"So, who wants to catch the flak for this mess?" she asked, mournfully raising an eyebrow. He looked at her as if to say 'Not-fucking-_me_', so Tank sighed and headed for the stairs.

"You baby," she muttered. At that moment, Sarge emerged from the kitchen, a glass of brandy in hand. He froze mid-step as he caught sight of the pair, and his eyebrows rocketed toward his hairline. Tank stopped before she went down the stairs, and saluted, wincing as a glob of mud dropped off her elbow to land on the floor with a wet splat.

"We're back, sir," Tank said. Reaper also saluted. Sarge just stared at them, his expression the epitome of disbelief. Then he looked to his brandy and back at them before his gaze went back to the alcohol.

"I've _gotta_ cut back on this shit," he muttered to himself. Then he looked at Tank and Reaper.

"What the fuck happened to you two?" Sarge demanded. Tank cleared her throat nervously.

"We got attacked by a mud puddle and lost," she said. Sarge's eyebrows inched higher.

"'Lost'?" he echoed. "Looks to me like you got your fucking balls cut off, creamed, and then force-fed to you on a fucking silver platter!"

Tank couldn't fight down a small smirk. "Sir, I didn't have any fucking balls in the first place."

Sarge levelled a look at her. "Then your tits, Tank. Don't be a smart-ass, Marine!"

"Yessir!" Tank barked. Sarge frowned.

"I expect both of you in my office in a half an hour," he stated. "I want a report of the current geographical conditions. Dismissed."

"Sir!" Reaper and Tank said in unison, and dropped their salutes to head for the stairs.

"Marines!"

Tank and Reaper turned back to Sarge to see him scowling at them. "Sarge?"

"Clean up this fucking mess!"

"Yes, sir!"

* * *

_**2042 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 1900 hours**_

A sneeze echoed through the living quarters. It was shortly followed by the loud blowing of a nose, and a couple of ineffective coughs.

Tank groaned miserably and tossed the tissue she'd just decimated into the wastebin. It was May twenty-third, roughly one week since Tank and Reaper's tryst in the rain, and Tank had found her words to have been true.

She had gotten sick. Completely, utterly, _miserably_ sick.

_Curse John for being as healthy as a horse_, she thought irritably.

The new recruit, Sarah Jones, eyed her distrustfully from her bunk. Tank caught the look, and scowled at the newbie with the black hair, green eyes, and oval face.

"If you don't fucking wanna catch it, bitch, you'd better damn well stop fucking staring," Tank snapped irritably. _Honestly_, the girl had been _staring_ at Tank for the better part of fifteen minutes. There was a creaking from the bunk above Tank's, and a second later, Reaper's head appeared over the edge of the mattress.

"Come on, Tank, let's not bite the boot's head off," he chided with a slight frown. Tank glared up at him.

"That's pretty fucking easy for you to say!" she groused, her voice slightly nasal from her stuffy nose. "I fucking _told_ you we had to get back, but _no_, you wanted to run in the fucking _rain!_"

Tank huffed, and turned onto her side as another round of coughing wracked her slight frame. Her head felt light and hot, and her eyes were burning, all in addition to her cough and sneezing.

Reaper rolled his eyes.

"Suck it up and stop the damn complaining, Tank," he grumbled. "Your bad mood's affecting _everybody_."

Tank whirled back over, her eyes flashing, to scowl furiously at Reaper. "'Bad mood'?!" she echoed incredulously. Oh, _now_ her ire was up. "You wanna see a bad fucking mood?! Come on! You, me, gym, right _now!_"

Reaper sighed. "I don't fucking wanna fight with you, Tank."

"Yeah?! Well, I do! Come on!" she yelled, and leapt off of her cot, coughing as she stalked toward the locker room, every muscle in her body taut. When she didn't hear Reaper following, she spun around and glared furiously at him, unaware of the way every single gaze in the room was on her.

"Come on, Reaper!" she challenged. "Or are you too pussy to fight a woman?!"

_That_ got Reaper's attention. His eyes narrowed, and he jumped down off of his bunk, bending his knees slightly with the impact as his boots hit the floor.

"Who're you callin' a fuckin' pussy?!" he demanded.

"_You_, bitch!" Tank retaliated, her fists clenched at her sides. Her eyes blazed at him with a true Irish temper, and he glared back. She held up five fingers. "You've got five fucking seconds 'til I pummel your fuckin' ass, head cold or not!"

Then she stalked into the locker room, not waiting to see if her husband would follow. She could, however, hear his boots against the concrete floor as he followed her. Tank also heard several other pairs of footsteps, as well as one that dashed up the stairs.

The whole squad was following.

_All the fucking better._

Tank stormed through the empty locker room like a force of nature, coming to the training room on the other end within five seconds. She stalked over to the mats in the center of the room and took a stance, fists balled up.

The second Reaper's boot touched the mats, Tank launched herself at him, a right hook rocketing toward his left eye.

Reaper blocked, despite his faint surprise, and then blocked another punch that she aimed at his gut. He grunted when she hit the inside his thigh with a blistering kick from the blade of her bare foot. Then he yelped as she used his instant-long distraction to put him in a hold and bodily throw him, a ragged, inarticulate cry escaping her lips.

As Reaper stared up at her from the mat, stunned, Tank clenched her fists before her and bounced on the balls of her feet, looking slightly like a boxer who was hyper with anticipation. She scowled down at him.

"Come on!" she barked fiercely. "Come on! Get the fuck up!"

Reaper's features set into a glower, and he flipped to his feet, his boots clomping on the mats. Then she was on him again. Her punches flew fast, and her feet blurred as she kicked and moved. Her dodges were spectacular, and she landed two more hits on Reaper before he finally managed to sweep her feet from underneath her. Then he pinned her to the mat, drawing both arms behind her and twisting them so that she couldn't move them.

Tank didn't let him get her feet, however, and she snapped a kick up behind her to catch him in the kidney. Then she kicked him again, and again. Reaper gasped, and his grip on her loosened until Tank was able to get her arms out of his hands. She levered herself up with them, elbowed him in the gut, and then rolled over and socked him a good one in the face with her right hand.

Reaper's lip split, and Tank's knuckles got sliced open on his teeth. He rocked back on his heels, but then they were up again. Tank aimed a powerful roundhouse kick at Reaper's jaw. It would have put him on the floor had it actually connected, but he ducked, and aimed a side-kick at her midsection.

Tank grunted as it connected. She stumbled backwards, winded and coughing violently, but she didn't let her guard down. This was a good thing, for Reaper immediately assaulted her with a series of punches.

Tank managed to block most of them, but one caught her high on the shoulder, taking her balance, and the second caught her on the hip.

Tank went down, flat on her back, with a yelp.

Reaper immediately pinned her, grabbing her shoulder with his right hand and pressing his forearm against her neck. He pinned her legs with his knees; her right arm was underneath her, and he caught her left arm with his left hand's iron grip.

Tank struggled against the hold, but Reaper didn't budge, using all his weight to press her into the mats. His arm pressed into Tank's windpipe, and she gradually eased her writhing, wheezing.

"Do you give up?!" he demanded, glaring down into Tank's eyes. His face was only inches from hers. Tank glared defiantly at him, and he scowled furiously.

"_Do_ you _fucking_ give up?!"

"WHAT THE _FUCK_ IS THIS?!" The roar startled both combatants, and Reaper looked up to its source. Tank couldn't move, but she could vaguely see who it was from where she was pinned.

It was Sarge, and he was furious.

"GET THE FUCK UP, RIGHT NOW!" Sarge shouted. Tank winced as his voice hurt her ears, but she looked up at Reaper nonetheless. She glared at him for a second. Then a drop of blood from his split lip landed on her cheek and she lost her fury. She gazed up at him apologetically.

Tank slapped her left hand weakly against the mat where Reaper had it pinned across her body.

It was the universal sign for 'Uncle'.

Reaper immediately let her up, his own eyes angry and regretful at the same time, and Tank rubbed her neck as she rolled to her feet and stood at attention. She gave one weak cough, and then stood with her hands at her sides, staring straight ahead. She was vaguely aware of Reaper doing something similar next to her.

Sarge was more irate than Tank had ever seen him, and his bootfalls were loud in the sudden silence of the room. Tank could see, past him, that the rest of the squad was watching them with varying ranges of amusement and encouragement. Tank spotted Sarah, who was the only one looking on with disapproval. The black-haired young woman's arms were crossed, and a frown was upon her face.

"WOULD _EITHER_ OF YOU CARE TO _FUCKING_ EXPLAIN TO ME WHAT THE _FUCK_ YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE DOING?!" Sarge demanded, his voice still an angry shout. Tank looked back to him.

"We were blowing off some steam, sir," she said. She inwardly cringed at how pathetic the explanation sounded.

"_**WHAT?!**_" Sarge barked. He got right up in Tank's face, and she fought not to wince.

"We were blowing off some steam, sir!" Tank responded, her shouted words clipped and formal.

"_**THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH, MARINE!**_"

Tank couldn't hold back her slight flinch as Sarge's figurative bass amp skyrocketed from five to ten. Seriously, the devil dogging was okay, but his _volume_... that was _murder._

"I CANNOT BELIEVE THAT THE TWO OF YOU, _OF ALL FUCKING PEOPLE_, WOULD BE THE INSTIGATORS OF SUCH IMPROPER CONDUCT!" Sarge glared venomously into Tank's eyes, and then Reaper's. "THIS WILL _NEVER_ HAPPEN AGAIN! _**AM I CLEAR?!**_"

"Sir, yes, sir!" Tank and Reaper barked in unison. Tank was suddenly and inexplicably reminded of boot camp.

"YOU AND REAPER WILL REPORT TO THE CCU EVERY DAY FOR THE NEXT THIRTY DAYS! THERE WILL BE NO COMPLAINTS!" Sarge roared. "_**AM I FUCKING CLEAR?!**_"

"Sir, yes sir!" Tank and Reaper yelled.

"GO CLEAN YOURSELVES UP!" Sarge barked. "THIS WILL NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN, AM I CLEAR?!"

"Sir, yes sir!"

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY SIGHT!"

"Sir, yes sir!"

And Tank and Reaper departed from the training room, heading for the infirmary. They didn't speak as they trooped up the stairs and down the hallway.

When they reached the sick bay, Tank pointed Reaper to the bathroom in silence, grabbing a few items from the supply cabinet before she followed him. Tank entered the smaller room. Reaper was seated upon the toilet, his hands clasped loosely before him. His hazel gaze was downcast. Tank studied him for a moment, and then she knelt in front of him, setting the equipment down on the tile.

She looked regretfully up into Reaper's eyes, and he stared back, anger swimming in his gaze.

"I'm sorry," she whispered after a moment. "I don't know what came over me."

"You fucking assaulted me, Tank," Reaper growled. "Verbally and physically."

Tank sighed, and reached for his hand. He pulled it away. Tank frowned sadly and withdrew her touch.

There were a few moments of silence as Tank turned and unwrapped a gauze pad, soaking it in peroxide.

"I haven't lost my cool like that in years." The quiet confession was enough to draw Reaper's gaze to her. "I really don't know what came over me, John, and I'm sorry I took it out on you."

She paused to cough into the crook of her elbow, away from Reaper and from the sterile equipment. "You did nothing to deserve it. I was wrong to do as I did. There is no excuse for my actions."

Reaper didn't reply, his stare steely in nature. Tank looked back at him remorsefully.

Finally, she sighed, and held up the peroxide-soaked gauze pad.

"I'm gonna clean that cut out, now, whether you're angry at me or not," she stated. "Brace yourself."

Reaper continued to glare at her as she reached up and began to dab the drying blood off of his face using a corner of the soaked gauze. She worked her way up his chin, her fingers more gentle and tender than they'd ever been, even during their more intimate moments. When she got to the split in his lip, she winced sympathetically before beginning to dab at it using the clean part of the cloth.

Reaper had little more reaction than a slight facial flinch, and let Tank continue to clean the cut without a word.

Tank's guilt ate her alive as she treated the wound that she, herself, had given him. She _hated_ herself for causing him pain, for going off on him like that, for doing something that she had sworn to herself that she would never do. She felt a lump in her throat, and Reaper's face blurred before her eyes, but she wouldn't let the tears fall. No, she couldn't let the tears fall. That had been beaten into her during boot camp.

Eventually, she deemed the cut clean enough, and dropped the soiled gauze on the tile floor in favor of quickly unwrapping a different bandage. She then pressed that sterile one to Reaper's split lip.

"Hold that there," she instructed, "and put pressure on it. It'll hurt, but that's the only way we're gonna stop the bleeding quickly enough."

Reaper didn't speak, but did as he was told. Tank felt his eyes on her as she scooped up the too-light peroxide bottle, a roll of bandages, and a few gauze pads and stood to use the sink. Then, on second thought, Tank set them down and ducked out of the bathroom. She returned a moment later with an opaque, unmarked plastic bottle in her hand. She seemed not to even notice the pain from her own injury.

Tank didn't speak to her husband, but unscrewed the cap of the plastic bottle and held her injured hand over the sink, the bottle in her good hand. She clenched her teeth in anticipation of the pain to come, and then sloshed the brown liquid over her wound.

Sitting off to the side, Reaper watched as Tank's whole body jerked, and she clenched her jaw and arms so hard that the tendons in them stood out. A bead of sweat slid down her forehead. Movement from Tank's legs caught Reaper's eye, and he glanced down to see that her toes had curled and she had rocked back on her heels.

"What the fuck is that shit?" he asked, slightly horrified. He rose from his seat and crossed to her, wrapping his free arm around her waist. Reaper pressed himself into her back, offering his support.

Tank hissed as the stuff burned in her open wound, and finally, unable to endure it any longer, yanked on the tap. She thrust her fist under the running water, jerking with pain again as the pressure of the water hit her split knuckles.

The blood washed away, and Reaper thought he caught sight of white bone.

"Fuck, Tank!" he whispered. Tank, however, breathed a sigh of relief.

"We ran out of peroxide," she murmured softly. "I looked for some more, but all we have is iodine."

Reaper turned wide eyes on her. Tank wouldn't meet his gaze. Instead, she shut the water off and tore another gauze pad open with her teeth, using them to tug it out of the wrapper before she pressed it hard to her knuckles.

Then, suddenly, she coughed, and kept coughing. She couldn't seem to stop, and kept choking for almost two minutes. They seemed like hours to Tank, since she couldn't breathe properly or cover her mouth.

When Tank finally calmed her breathing, she groaned miserably again and bent over to rest her warm forehead against the cool porcelain of the sink.

"Come on, Reaper," she mumbled. "You'd better go back down and go to sleep."

He shifted behind her. "And what about you?"

Tank sighed. "I'm gonna take care of my hand," she said, "and then I'm gonna go to sleep."

_I'll sleep in the infirmary tonight,_ she thought.

Reaper must have sensed her thoughts, because he just squeezed her waist slightly. "And _where_ are you planning on sleeping?"

"Here," Tank replied with a sniffle and a cough. "I'll just keep everybody awake if I sleep down in the living quarters, and there's the chance that they could catch my cold."

"We've already all been exposed to it, Amanda," Reaper deadpanned. Tank groaned again and nodded.

"I know," she said, "but if you don't get enough sleep, then your bodies won't be able to fight it off well enough and I'll have to give y'all medicine."

She coughed again, feeling utterly miserable as she also shivered. Why did her head feel so light...?

Then it hit her like a stone thrown into a thick fog. _Fever._

"John," she called. He shifted against her again.

"What?"

"Could you go out into the sick bay and get me the thermometer?" she asked, her voice thick and slightly nasal. "It should be in the supply cabinet on the third shelf up, in a white basket. It'll be in a hard plastic case."

Reaper froze for an instant, and then he left her. Tank coughed a few times, shivering slightly in the absence of his warm body. Reaper returned a couple of minutes later with the requested thermometer. He slipped it into the back pocket of her fatigues.

"Thanks," she murmured, slowly straightening up. Then she sighed again and pulled the gauze pad off of her knuckles, tearing another open and pressing the new one to the place where the old one had been. Then she grabbed the roll of white linen bandages. Reaper took those from her before she could do anything, though.

"Come on, Amanda," he whispered, taking her hand in his. He let go of the gauze pad that was against his lip, paying it no attention as it fell into the sink. His touch was gentle as he gingerly bound her hand up, wrapping it tightly but not too tightly. Tank allowed him to do it.

A few seconds passed in silence before Tank heaved a deep breath and leaned her temple against Reaper's chest, closing her eyes.

"I'm really sorry, John," she whispered.

"I am, too," he murmured. "I shouldn't have let you bait me like I did."

"I shouldn't have baited you in the first place."

"...Are we gonna have a guilt fest, here?" Reaper's tone was light. His fingertips gently brushed over the back of Tank's hand as he finished binding her knuckles. Tank chuckled slightly before she coughed again.

"Maybe so," she conceded. Then she paused. "How's your back doing?"

Reaper winced slightly, giving Tank all the answer she needed. "You have a really strong kick, you know."

"Do you need to go to the bathroom?" Tank asked suddenly. Reaper paused.

"Why do you ask?" he countered, eyeing her dubiously. Tank looked at him with tired eyes.

"'Cause I kicked you in the kidneys," she replied. There was a pause. "Hey, if you start pissing blood, tell me and I'll get you some medicine for it."

"I feel fine," Reaper intoned. Tank sighed, and sat down shakily upon the toilet when Reaper released her hand.

"Just 'cause you feel fine doesn't mean you _are_," she muttered, staring up at him with fever-glazed eyes. "Internal damage doesn't always show up right away..."

"You just take your fucking temperature," Reaper instructed. Tank sighed again, and pulled the thermometer from her back pocket where Reaper had stashed it. She uncapped it, staring wryly at Reaper, primed it, and stuck it in her mouth.

Three slow minutes passed. Tank began tapping her feet against the floor, bored. Then it beeped, and she took it out of her mouth to glance at it.

"One-oh-two point one," she mumbled. Reaper's eyebrows shot up.

"One hundred two point one degrees?" he echoed dubiously. He grabbed the thermometer from his bride, staring at the numbers on the tiny screen. Tank was right.

Reaper swore, and hurried out of the room. He returned momentarily with two ibuprofen in the palm of his hand.

"Take these," he ordered. Tank sighed, but took the pills and popped them, dry-swallowing before she blinked sleepily up at her husband. He put his hand on her shoulder.

"Come on, Tank," he said. "Get a drink."

Tank wordlessly did as she was told, tripping before she managed to catch herself on the sink. She then switched on the water, cupped her unbandaged hand underneath it, and took a few gulps before shutting it off again and straightening.

Then Reaper steered her back out into the sick bay, to the cot that he had once slept in when he had a concussion. It was the one nearest to the bathroom, placed so that if its inhabitant had to throw up in the middle of the night then they could access it quickly and easily.

When Tank laid her head upon the pillow, curling on her side so that she was facing Reaper, she coughed ineffectively a few times. Then she looked up at him.

"You need to sleep," she croaked. Reaper stared back at her levelly.

"You need it more," he stated. Tank looked up at him, shivering miserably.

"I'll sleep better if I know you're resting," she said. "God knows I know you've got to be hurting. And we've gotta go to CCU tomorrow..."

"I'll sleep," Reaper assured her, "but I'm not leaving."

Tank finally sighed, feeling too terrible to argue.

"Love you," she breathed. She didn't hear his reply.

She was already asleep.

* * *

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Doom. Just a copy of the movie, as well as a copy of the book I got from and a copy of the original movie script that **askita** was kind enough to send me. Thanks, **askita**! But I don't own any of the characters or locations. Nyah._

_I sincerely apologize for the two-week hiatus. Between a number of essays due for my college classes, memorization for my Anatomy and Physiology course, an attempt to keep on top of updates, and a REALLY hyper puppy, I've been a little pressed for time lately. It's really no excuse for my tardiness, but I hope you'll forgive me for it._

_So... Tank really lost her temper, here. Good thing she learns her lessons pretty well, and she really **doesn't **like to see Reaper hurting. This was immature, yes, but she won't be doing it again._

_A huge thank you goes to the people who were kind enough to review chapter 28/29. This means you, **angel19872006**, **Lady Nightlord**, and **Shattered Mirror01**. To **Shattered Mirror01**, I'm really glad you like Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum so much. Welcome to my fic! XD_

_I sincerely hope that everyone enjoys this chapter. It's extra-long, to make up for my hiatus._

_Thanks!_

_Next chapter SHOULD be posted 4-19-10._

_**-P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	31. 2042 AD RRTS Barracks 1900 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

_"You're so cute, Miss Cloud."  
--Aerith Gainsborough, Final Fantasy VII_

__

**Chapter 30.**

* * *

_**2042 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 1900 hours**_

"You know what I just realized?" Tank watched as Reaper turned to face her, a curious look in his eyes. He refrained from replying long enough to set down the hammer and nails he was carrying before he turned to give her part of his attention.

"What's that?" he questioned. Tank gave him a smile of wry amusement.

"Our life is a soap opera." Reaper blinked at her, a mix of confusion and amusement quirking his mouth into a smirk.

"How so?" he asked, coming over to take the other end of the stack of boards that Tank had just finished piling up. Together they hauled it over to the place where the rest of the framework was.

There was a new family moving in at Twentynine Palms, but the base was one house short. Thus, Tank and Reaper were serving their CCU time building the family's house with the other members of the Correctional Custody Unit. It wasn't easy, but it was better than being court-marshaled.

Tank grinned at him again, and then paused to cough into her shoulder. She still wasn't over her cold, though it had gotten better over the past two weeks since their first- and last, she swore- big fight.

"Think about it," she told him. "Two marines meet on the job, fall in love, and get married. Throw in a penchant for trouble, a unit full of pranksters and perverts, and add a dash of physical violence. Mix, add a pinch of quality CCU time, and what do you get?"

Reaper laughed. "You're right. Our lives _are_ something straight out of a soap opera."

Tank nodded, and, after they both began separating out the boards according to who needed what, they walked back to the lumber pile to repeat the process. It was when they were halfway across the lot that she grinned again and snapped her fingers.

"Something to add to that recipe is the fact that one of us is living her lifelong dream," she commented, "and you have a tragic past. _Totally_ soap-opera-type stuff!"

Reaper chuckled again, but it was brief.

"True," he admitted quietly. Tank looked over at him, and then realized her slip and grimaced.

"Shit," she muttered, and then, louder, "Reaper, I'm sorry. I forgot for a minute-"

"It's okay," he interrupted her, looking over at her as he grabbed a couple of two-by-fours and set them down into the growing pile that they had started on. "You didn't say it to hurt me."

Tank stared sadly at her husband. "Still, I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "Can you just drop it?"

Tank opened her mouth to reply, then thought better of it and nodded before she added on the last two two-by-fours and they each took an end to carry it over to the project area. It was as they settled the lumber down again that a thought hit Tank totally out of the blue, causing her to grin.

"Hey, Reaps," she called to him as he turned to make another trip. He looked over at her as she drew abreast of him.

"What?" he asked, and she detected a hint of impatience in his voice. She rolled her eyes and held up her hands in an "I surrender" gesture.

"Well, I had a good idea, but if you don't want to hear it…"

Reaper narrowed his eyes at her. "Why do I get the feeling that it involves something illicit?"

Tank's mouth fell open.

"What?!" she squawked indignantly. "You know I'd never- hey!"

Reaper was laughing at her, and had reached over and slung his arm across her shoulders, pulling her into a headlock that made her stumble slightly. Tank planted her hands on his side, trying to push him away, but Reaper's brute strength was much greater than her own, and she couldn't get away. It was made worse when he dug his knuckles into her scalp, being gentle enough that it didn't really hurt but was still frustrating to Tank regardless.

"Oi! Leggo!" she yelped as he went for a second noogie. When Reaper just laughed, Tank growled, stiffened up her fingers, and pressed her fingertips firmly into two of his pressure points. Reaper hissed with discomfort and pulled away, laughing.

"Hey! Back to work, ladies!" Reaper and Tank briefly saluted the MP who had shouted at them, and did as they were told.

"Anyway," Tank continued blithely, grunting quietly as she lifted another stack of two-by-fours into place. "You know that old Sony PSP I have back at barracks that I got just after you joined the squad?"

He glanced at her, eyebrow cocked in curiosity.

"Yeah," he replied. "That thing's really out of date. I don't know why you keep it."

Tank glared at him. "It's _not_ out of date!"

She paused again to cough into the crook of her elbow before sniffling and wrinkling her nose slightly as a cloud of sawdust was blown their way from over where another soldier was cutting the wood. She went to lift another couple of two-by-fours, and then paused, her eyes and nose twitching. A second later, she sneezed explosively into her elbow again.

Reaper raised an eyebrow at her in amusement. It only climbed higher when she sneezed twice more in quick succession.

"Bless you," he said... or would have, had Tank not held up her hand to stay his statement, her features scrunching up again. His eyebrows shot up toward his hairline when she finally relaxed.

Only to sneeze again a second later.

"Shit!" she swore softly, sniffling again, and then she turned to him, shaking her bangs out of her face. She had her hair done up in a clip for the day, but the work had loosened some of it from its confines and it was sticking to her cheeks as she perspired in the hot air.

"Bless you," Reaper said, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile.

"Sorry," she apologized. He shook his head.

"Don't," he ordered. "Natural bodily function."

She grinned somewhat sheepishly. "Usually I don't sneeze so much. It's the sawdust and my cold."

"I know," he said simply. He grunted, hefting one end of the pile before Tank could grab the other. Once she did, they carried it over to the final destination, and then donned toolbelts.

"So, what were you going to say earlier?" he asked, going over to hold a ladder steady as Tank clambered up it, coming to a halt perched atop the framework of the house across from another soldier. She wobbled unsteadily for a second, and then she found a grip, wrapping her legs around the beam. When she looked back down at him again with a grin, she found his eyes smoldering quietly at her.

She ignored the flutter in her gut for the moment in favor of pulling a hammer and a couple of nails out of her belt and getting to work.

"Anyway, as I _was_ saying," she called down to him, talking around the nails she had stuck between her lips, "I have a game or two on there that I've downloaded off the PSN over the years. There's one that I've played… Oh, about twice, so far? Got this great scene near the beginning of the game. The main character's love interest infiltrates a brothel to get information that may or may not save their town, and the main character goes after her. But only girls…"

She trailed off, pursing her lips as she hammered a nail into a beam. When she finished, she turned a grin on him, clenching the nails between her teeth so that they didn't fall. Reaper laughed affectionately at her before he went back to drilling some screws into a lower beam. Tank wasn't distracted enough to miss the flash of heat in his gaze.

"I guess I shouldn't spoil it for you," Tank called down to him. "It's hilarious, but I don't want to ruin the amusement value of watching it."

"Which game is it?" called Reaper. Tank giggled, fondly recalling memories of a protagonist with distinctive, spiky blond hair dressing up in a silk dress, blond wig, _lingerie,_ diamond tiara, and sexy cologne in order to 'rescue' his childhood-friend-turned-love-interest, when it turned out she didn't need rescuing at all.

"Final Fantasy Seven," she called back.

"Huh." She missed the glance that he directed up at her. Or, more directly, at her backside as she turned to reach for more supplies. "Sounds like fun."

She giggled again, and then covered her grinning mouth with one palm. "You'd have to see it to know what I'm talking about. Which is why tonight, after we get off duty, I'm commandeering your lap for an hour or so and introducing you to my favorite RPG of all time."

Reaper's laugh met her ears. "I look forward to it."

And so it was that, later that night, Tank found herself ensconced in Reaper's arms, a battered PSP in her hands with a splitter hooked into her headphone jack, one pair of earphones in her ears and the other pair in Reaper's. He watched over her shoulder as she made quick, professional work of the first two missions and the scenes accompanying them.

She only slowed down when he asked her to, so that he could read the dialogue a bit easier.

By the time that she got to the Wall Market scene, they had been joined by Goat, Jumper, and Destroyer and had had to unplug the headphones so that they could all hear.

Tank couldn't help but laugh when all the men groaned simultaneously as Aerith, the polygonal pink figure with attitude on the screen, convinced Cloud, the protagonist, that he should cross-dress to infiltrate a brothel in order to rescue Tifa, Cloud's childhood friend. A half-hour later, they all shared a long laugh as all three of them threatened the crime lord for information.

By the time that Sarge came down and _ordered_ a lights-out, Tank had officially gotten Reaper addicted to Final Fantasy 7.

Needless to say, she went to bed feeling satisfactorily accomplished.

She grinned for days afterwards.

* * *

_**2043 A.D. - Nineteen Miles West of Dezhnevo, Russia - 2047 hours**_

A sharp punch landed in her gut, and she doubled over, retching with an empty stomach. However, she was suddenly yanked upright again by a hand on her bound arms, only to be punched on the jaw. This time they let her fall, and she fell hard to the side, her shoulder hitting the concrete floor hard enough that the breath whooshed out of her lungs.

One of the men shouted something, and a translator echoed his words, though with a definite Russian accent.

"What were you doing in our fields?!" the man demanded. Tank didn't reply.

A hand fisted in her jumpsuit, pulling her upright briefly before she was roughly shoved into a hard plastic chair. A second later, her black clothing was none-too-gently unzipped to her crotch and jerked down to her elbows, exposing her black sports bra, her bare arms, her midriff, and her black boyshort skivvies.

There came the hissing of a knife being drawn from a sheath. Tank gulped, and winced slightly when the cold steel was pressed to the bare skin of her shoulder.

"You will tell us," the translator said, "or we will be forced to draw the information out of you..."

"Go to hell!" Tank bit out through the blood in her mouth.

An instant later, a line of blazing fire slashed across her right shoulder from the edge of her bra to the side of her arm. She hissed, but clenched her teeth, unwilling to talk.

"Now will you tell us?"

Tank puckered her mouth for a second, then spat a glob of spit and blood on the floor at the translator's feet.

Another gash was drawn across her skin, and then another, and then another. Tank's chest heaved with the pain of the cutting. Her training had covered torture resistance, in the case that she was ever caught for information, but not even all the training in the world could've prepared her for the real thing.

The only thing that kept her from crying out and giving up the information that they wanted was the fact that if she did, then she would put Reaper and the rest of RRTS Six in danger.

Though, if Sarah hadn't been such a cocky little piss ant, Tank would probably not be in her current predicament.

By the time that the fifteenth cut had been made, this one to the outside of her upper left arm, Tank was feeling somewhat faint, dizzy from the pain and from the blood loss.

The Russian man said something.

"Now are you willing to talk?" the translator translated. Tank panted for a second, and then mustered up her strength. This time the glob of blood she spat hit the translator in the eye.

He hissed, and the large Russian man made a few more cuts on Tank's body, going down to her midriff to draw thin, shallow lines of red across her skin.

Another ten cuts, and Tank was biting her lower lip and tasting fresh blood.

"Tell us why you were in our mining fields!" the translator demanded after the Russian barked something again.

"Go fuck yourselves, you shit-faced, motherfucking, goddamned bastard sons of a motherfucking whore!" Tank screamed. "Fuck your own asses and burn in the deepest levels of hell, you bitches, 'cause I'm damn fucking well telling you fucking _nothing!_ I'm laying a curse on you! Murphy's Law rest heavily on you for the rest of your short fucking lives!"

The translator bristled, then turned to the Russian, speaking quickly in their native language. When Tank saw the Russian become infuriated, she knew that she had accomplished her goal.

Now, hopefully, they would torture her into unconsciousness. Then she couldn't tell them anything.

However, when the Russian suddenly turned and walked across the room, Tank had to fight to hide her dismay.

_What the fuck is he doing?_

Her unasked question was answered a second later when the large man returned with a steel bucket that sloshed with each step. The powder that sloshed onto the floor with every movement was white, and scattered in tiny granules.

Tank swallowed, suddenly knowing what it was. _Salt_. _Fuck._

The Russian's eyes were still irate as he finally returned to Tank and stared down at her for a second. Then he said something, and the translator translated as a wicked grin spread across his thin face.

"He says that you will burn in hell long before we do, devil dog," the slighter man cackled, "and that you will burn in life, as well, as punishment for not checking your tongue."

Tank swallowed to wet her suddenly dry throat, and watched with trepidation as the Russian set the bucket on the floor before he dipped his hand into it.

His palm was filled with white dust when he withdrew it.

Then he suddenly reached out, and his hand crashed onto Tank's shoulders, smearing the salt into her open wounds.

Her screams echoed through the room and out the open door into the hall. The salt burned like the fires of hell, only worse, and all she could do was writhe and scream until the pain started to die down. Then she shrieked again when the Russian poured salt into the open wounds on her arms. Her voice cracked with the strain, and she arched her back, eyes bulging, staring unseeingly at the ceiling, uncaring that a thin trail of drool and blood was creeping out the corner of her grimacing, open mouth.

When she finally managed to relax as the pain died down again, the Russian took her chin in his hand, his sky-blue eyes colder than the ice outside. He spoke something in his native language.

"Now are you willing to tell us?" the translator asked.

Tank panted for a moment, seriously considering giving up the information. However, it quickly passed, and she sagged in the chair.

"F-Fuck... off..." she gasped out, weak with the pain.

The translator translated her words. The Russian let go of her. The Marine slumped back against the chair.

Then the Russian dumped salt on her wounded midriff, and she screamed again, some rather colorful curses flying from her lips. Her cries increased in intensity as the man roughly ground the salt into the cuts on her stomach and ribs, her voice growing hoarse before it finally broke.

Tank coughed, and tasted blood as her chest heaved.

"Last chance," the translator said. His voice was barely audible over the white noise in Tank's ears. "Tell us, or else."

Tank stared defiantly up at him, unable to answer save for with a glare as she tried to get the breath back into her lungs through her blood-filled mouth. The first man, a behemoth of a person with hair the color of straw and eyes the color of the sky, snarled at her. The last thing that Tank saw was his fist flying toward her face. Then everything swirled around her.

Tank dimly felt something coarse thrust over her head, felt herself get jerked upright. Somebody roughly straightened her jumpsuit and zipped it back up. She barely managed to get her feet underneath her for a moment; then she was dragged through the facility- wherever it was- at a quick clip, and she couldn't keep the pace. Finally she just sagged in the vicelike grips of the two people to either side of her and dully tried to measure how far and how fast she was going.

There was a brief pause. Her left foot stopped moving for an instant, and her right foot kept going forward.

Left-hand turn.

Then came a right-hand turn.

Then came a series of turns so fast that Tank's pain-befuddled mind couldn't keep up. She tried to remember every turn and intersection, but in her dazed state she was totally unable to do so. Eventually, she gave up entirely, and just let them take her where they would.

As they walked her along what Tank assumed to be halls, her mind unwillngly flashed back to how she had gotten in this situation in the first place.

_The team had received the mission from the United States government on March first. The orders pertained to the resources used to make the nation's energy supply, naturally. The team had been sent to do some recon work in eastern Russia, to see what was the hold up in the shipments that the United States had paid for._

_They'd been flown out to a remote area roughly twenty-three miles west of a coastal town called Dezhnevo, which was practically a stone's throw from Alaska with big and little Diomede smack-dab in between. They'd then trekked almost four miles back east to where they'd needed to be, and started their work._

_What they'd found hadn't sat well with any of them._

_The team had been doing well with their recon work, which had started at around 1500 hours, until around 1700 hours, when the first people began to appear._

_They were swarthy men, with thick beards and even thicker clothes, built like tanks. Tank had bunkered down behind a snow drift with Sarah and Reaper, whom she had been grouped with for point reconnaissance. Together, the trio had switched on the insta-translators that were built into their headsets, and had listened in on the men's conversations._

_The Russians had been talking about some kind of an operation, something about United States dollars and how the government was stupid for paying first. Tank and Reaper had listened patiently as the Russians had talked about how they were going to dupe the United States, use the money to finance the Russian government. They planned on keeping the materials- which the United States had bought and paid for- for themselves._

_Sarah, however, wasn't as experienced as Tank and Reaper were. She was young, full of zeal and a desire to protect her country's interests abroad. She had been on one successful mission with the Rapid Response Tactical Squad as of yet. As such, she didn't fully know how tough their missions could be._

_Sarah got cocky._

_She began to debate with Tank and Reaper about how they should take the Russians out right there. Tank and Reaper had verbally rebuked her, though they kept their voices quiet. They couldn't afford to be spotted, not this early in the mission, and they told her as much._

_Sarah hadn't listened._

_The last thing that Tank had known before waking up to a burst of pain in that room had been gunshots and a blow to her head._

Now Tank had no idea where she was, where Reaper and Sarah were. She only hoped that they'd gotten out alright, that the Russians had only managed to capture Tank.

Tank prayed fervently to God above that neither of them had been caught or worse...

She heard a door open, then the sound of one of the Russians saying something. Then Tank was thrown roughly forward. She stumbled, tripped, fell flat on her face, unable to catch herself on her unsteady legs. Tank gasped through the blood in her mouth as her wounds grated against the coarse fabric of her jumpsuit, felt the liquid pooling in the rough bag that was over her head. Then she heard a familiar voice over the dull clanking of a shutting door.

"Tank? Tank, answer me, damnit!"

"Reaper?" she countered thickly. Sweet Jesus, was it just her or were her lips going numb? "Reaper?"

"Tank, can you move?"

Tank took a deep breath, assessing her hurts. It felt as though her nose was broken, and her jaw was definitely bruised, though she could still use it. Her stomach was sore; the punches she had endured might have bruised some ribs. The cuts on her arms, back, and midsection still blazed with agony. Nothing that would hinder her mobility, though.

"Yes," she affirmed.

"Good," Reaper grunted. She heard him shift, and surmised that he was tied up, as well. "Move toward my voice."

Tank summoned all her strength and obeyed without question, guessing what he was going to do.

She ignored the fact that she probably looked like an inchworm in doing so.

"Did they get Seraph?" Tank asked, making up a nickname on the spot. After all, she didn't want to use their real names, not when they could be watched or heard. She heard Reaper pause, and then she surmised that he must have figured it out, seeing as he continued to move after a second. Tank took a second to spit some blood out of her mouth before she continued to inch her way toward her husband.

"Okay, stop," Reaper ordered after a second. Tank stopped moving. "I think I can reach you... Did they tie the bag on?"

Tank glanced downward as best she could. "I don't think so, but it's still pretty tight."

"I'm gonna pull it off," Reaper said. "You might want to close your eyes."

Tank closed her eyes. "Go ahead."

A second later, there was a tugging from the burlap sack near the top of her head. It came off with some difficulty a second later, and Tank sucked in a breath of fresh air as light hit her eyelids.

She heard Reaper shift again, and then heard him gasp.

"What the fuck did they do to you?" he asked quietly. Tank shrugged, at least as much as her current position would allow. She couldn't hold back a faint wince as the salt-scoured gashes underneath her jumpsuit were stretched.

"Punched me a few times," she said, her voice calm despite her raging emotions. "Nothing's broken except my nose. It probably looks worse than it really is. What about you?"

"I haven't let them get close enough to me to do anything, yet," he grumbled. "Least, not after I woke up again."

Tank finally blinked open her watering eyes to look up at Reaper. He was sporting a nasty bruise on his temple.

"Yeah?" she countered nonchalantly. "Then what's that bruise from?"

Reaper shrugged, his eyes questing around the room. "When they caught me."

"And Seraph? Did they get her, too?"

Reaper shook his head. "Nah, just you and me."

Tank trusted that he knew what he was talking about.

"Okay," she said. "Now we just have to get out of here before they decide to come back for us."

"Already tried to think of a way," Reaper groused, scanning the room again. "There's no windows, one door. There's an air duct in the far corner from us, but even so, there's nothing to stand on to reach it."

Tank ponderously rolled over so that she could see the duct he was talking about. It was set high in the wall, higher than Reaper could reach even jumping. But maybe, with two people...

"What if you lifted me to it and then I pulled you up?" she ventured in a whisper. Reaper paused.

"I still don't think it would work," he said. "We know nothing about this facility or about where we are."

"But Sarge is sure to have sent out a search party by now," Tank protested. "Especially if Seraph made it back to them."

She paused, and then scowled at nothing in particular. "That little bitch _better_ have made it... I'm gonna tan her fucking _hide_ when I see her again!"

"Focus, Tank!" Reaper hissed. "We gotta get outta this clusterfuck before you can even think about throwing her a blanket party!"

Tank took a deep breath, knowing that Reaper was right. "Okay."

She paused. "Say you lift me up to that duct, and I get in. I could pull you up."

"How?" he countered. "That duct is fucking small, Tank. You wouldn't be able to turn around."

Tank glanced at him wryly. "You forget, dearest squadmate, that my legs are as strong as your arms. I don't _have_ to turn around to pull you up. You just have to keep a hold on my ankle and not break my leg."

Reaper paused, and then sighed. "For both our sakes, this had better fucking work."

Tank grinned up at him, and then struggled into a sitting position. It wasn't hard, considering that they'd left her legs free. The pain, however, made her bite back a whimper.

"Untie me," she hissed to him. Reaper shook his head, but he put his back to hers, working his hands around her wrists until he found the knot in the ropes that bound her hands. The knot came undone within seconds despite it being well-tied, especially under Reaper's deft fingers.

Tank quickly removed the ropes from her wrists, and then spun and untied Reaper's bonds. When he was free, the two of them hurriedly crossed to the vent.

Reaper was right: it was a very small vent. Large enough to fit a slim man, yes, but it would be a tight squeeze, nonetheless.

"It's gonna be real tight up there, Reaper," Tank said, eyeing it. "I don't know if you'll be able to fit."

Reaper looked up at it, and Tank could tell that he was sizing it up. "I can make it. Now come on."

Tank nodded, and they moved to the wall. Reaper interlaced his fingers, and Tank placed her booted foot into the net that his hands made. Then he levered her up with ease.

"Good thing you're still such a fucking feather merchant," Reaper grunted. Tank hid a grin as she pried the covering loose. Thankfully, it was a rather old-fashioned grate, one without screws that latched onto the inside just well enough to keep from falling out. It came off with ease. Reaper carefully let go with one of his hands, and reached up to take it from her before lowering it silently to the floor. Then he put his hand back underneath her foot.

"Okay, we have access," she whispered. Reaper only grunted slightly, and raised her up further. Tank placed her hands inside the vent and peered into it. Not much in the way of handholds, but she would make do.

Tank laboriously pushed herself up and into the vent using her arms. It was rather like trying to climb out of the deep end of a swimming pool, she mused, when not using a ladder.

It took a moment, but eventually Tank was able to wedge herself into the vent, leaving one leg hanging down. The other she braced against the bottom of the vent, pushing her torso against the top. She couldn't hold back her whimper as her back pressed against the metal, but she gasped and pushed past the pain nonetheless.

"Take my ankle!" she hissed down to Reaper.

"You sure you can do this?" he questioned. Tank growled lowly with exasperation.

"Of course, dumbass!" she spat, voice a whisper. "Now get the fuck up here!"

She heard Reaper sigh, but a second later he gripped her ankle. Tank immediately began to lift him, bending first at the knee and then at the hip. She grunted heavily- Reaper was much heavier than he looked- but with her anchored in the vent as she was as well as the fact that he was pushing himself up the wall using his feet, she managed it. Soon Reaper was able to grab onto the edge of the vent, and Tank pulled herself the rest of the way in to make room.

It took a little longer for Reaper to get in than it had for Tank to, but eventually he managed to clamber into the vent. She had been right- it was a very, _very_ tight squeeze- but Reaper made due with what he had, and the two of them continued through the vent as silently as they could possibly manage.

Eventually, much to Tank's great relief, the duct widened out into a more industrial size, and she and Reaper were able to move a bit more freely, even able to crawl on their hands and knees instead of on their bellies. It was then that they took a bit of a breather, sitting and leaning up against the side of the vent.

"Okay," Tank whispered, wincing as the salt-soaked cuts on her body throbbed violently. "First things first. We have to find where they're keeping our equipment."

Reaper stared at her incredulously. "Are you fucking _insane?_" he hissed. "We need to get out of here!"

"And how do you propose we do that without our weapons?" Tank snapped quietly. "I don't know about you, but I do _not_ wanna give these motherfuckers more of a chance than they've already had to study my sniper rifle. And while you might not be afraid of catching a couple bullets in the case that they do find us, I have _no_ desire to get shot up because my flak vest is MIA."

Reaper groaned faintly, leaning his head back against the side of the duct. "Fuck it all..."

"No shit, Sherlock." Tank eyed him, noting the location and size of the bruise on his temple. "How's your head?"

"I don't think I've got another concussion, if that's what you're asking me," Reaper deadpanned, closing his eyes. "Just a massive-ass headache."

Tank studied him a second longer. "Let's risk a few more minutes," she finally whispered. "That shouldn't hurt, and we need the rest."

Reaper shook his head faintly. "No, we need to move."

"Unless you wanna _push_ me, then I'm not moving," Tank grunted. "I need to take care of my nose, at least enough to stop the bleeding."

Reaper sighed exasperatedly, but conceded, leaning his head back against the cool side of the vent again. It was then that Tank knew _exactly_ how much pain he was in, because even if he had not shown it earlier, he was showing it now. That only told her two things: that their activities had intensified the pain, and that it had grown to be all but completely unbearable.

He was probably seeing double or triple, at the moment.

It was then that Tank decided that they had to get out of that hellhole as quickly, quietly, and safely as possible. As she pinched the bridge of her nose with a wince, trying to stem the bleeding, she scanned the sides of the vent in either direction. To her great pleasure, she saw a grate off the side of it just a few yards down.

With that solved, Tank set to figuring out where they were. Since they'd been captured only about five miles from the drop point, Tank figured that they couldn't have been taken too far from the place where they'd been caught. She figured maybe ten miles at the most.

A geographical map formed in her head. To the east would be the Bering Strait and the Pacific Ocean. If she and Reaper could get out of the facility and head east, she figured, then they could strike for one of the Russian coastal towns.

It was early March. The sea ice would, from what she had heard and researched, cover most of the sea between Russia and Alaska, not to mention the Diomede Islands. She and Reaper would strike for the islands, where they would likely be able to send a signal to Sarge or the military to tell them where they were.

_Then again,_ she thought, _we could do that if we find our comms, too. They have long-range capabilities..._

That decided, she turned to Reaper. "Stay here for a second."

Then she faced the way they'd been going and crawled carefully over to the grate she had spotted, wincing the whole way.

He cracked open his eyes, but seemingly decided that it was not worth the effort to argue. Tank ignored him, anyway, and peered through the grate. Behind it was a crawlspace, lined with steel beams and tiled between them.

They were between floors of the complex.

Tank grinned, and then worked on prying the grate out of the vent. It came off with some difficulty, and she slipped out into the crawlspace. She made sure to keep to the steel girders, which she knew wouldn't break or creak. After all, she had to make sure that she remained undetected.

Tank took a few minutes to explore the area, and she was pleased when she found a place where she could look down into the room relatively well and not be seen. It was a mesh tile, used to access the crawlspace when coupled with a ladder or chair.

And, to her great luck, there were their weapons and other equipment.

_Thank you, God,_ Tank thought fervently. She quickly scanned the room to make sure that she wouldn't be seen. It was empty but for the table holding the equipment and a chair to go with it.

Grinning, Tank pulled the mesh aside and then lowered herself into the room with a hiss and a whimper, using her arms. Her boots thudded faintly on the floor when she dropped to the ground, but otherwise it was quiet. Tank's next order of business was to cross to the door and lock it. Then she returned to the table and began to drag it over to where the ceiling mesh had been.

The legs of the table made a horrible racket, making Tank wince when she realized that it would quickly attract any wary guard. She double-timed it after that, and pushed away her pain, jumped up onto the table, dragged the chair onto it, as well, and began to toss their equipment up into the crawlspace. Up went their guns, their belts, their cold weather gear, their flak vests. Up went the grenades, the ammunition, and her medical pouch. Her knives, she took the time to hide on her person. The rest of their supplies quickly ended up in the growing pile inside the crawlspace. Then Tank pulled herself up, as well. She slid the mesh back into place.

Tank's heart was pounding as she quickly and agonizingly donned her flak vest, stuffing her supplies into its pockets without delay or delicacy. She finished it in two minutes, and then hurriedly stuffed Reaper's supplies into his vest pouches, packed up their remaining supplies into their belts, and pulled hers around her waist. She slung her medical bag across her chest with a grimace, tied her parka around her waist, and shouldered her assault rifle, holstering her submachine gun to her thigh.

Then she grabbed Reaper's things and laboriously made her way back across the girders to the vent shaft.

He was still in the same spot where she had left him, though he was looking a little bit more lucid. His eyes landed upon her when she crawled through the hole into the shaft after tossing his things in.

"Wow," he mumbled. "Lucky find?"

"Divine intervention," she countered with a pained gasp, not missing a beat. "I don't really put any stock in luck, even though I reference it all the time."

"Right," he mumbled. Tank crawled over to him, leaving his equipment where she had pitched it, and dug in her medical pouch for a second before she withdrew a bottle of painkillers.

"Take this," she instructed, shaking out a pill. "Give it a half an hour and you'll feel better, if not fine."

"Ibuprofen?" Reaper inquired, taking it and popping it. Tank shook her head.

"Stronger," she replied. "That's why I only gave you one pill instead of three." She glanced at the pile of equipment. "Come on, you need to suit up."

Reaper sighed and nodded, and then followed Tank over to the items. He donned them with careful precision, and though he moved a hair slower than he usually did, Tank could see that he would easily push through the pain of his injury and get the job done. That was just the way Reaper was.

Within three minutes, they were moving again, and Tank led him out of the vent into the crawlspace.

It took them more than an hour of crawling around before finally they found what looked like a hallway. Perched on the exposed steel girder above the sterile-looking white passage, Tank watched a pair of young Russians walk toward them underneath her.

_Please pass, please pass, please pass,_ Tank silently prayed. To the Marines' misfortune, the teenagers stopped right below them. Tank and Reaper couldn't move, couldn't make a sound, or the Russians would notice them.

The pair were talking in their native language. Tank silently reached up and flipped the insta-translator switch on her recently-recovered headset.

"So, what now?" the translator said in her ear as one of the boys, a brunette, spoke. The other, a blond, shrugged.

"Wanna go outside and have a smoke?"

"Sure," the brunette said. Then he suddenly blinked as a spot of red dripped down onto his forehead.

Tank's eyes grew wide in horror, suddenly realizing that her nose had started bleeding again. She looked up at Reaper where he was perched across from her, his own eyes wide with disbelief. Then she gritted her teeth and looked back down, just as the brunette teenager looked up at her.

She jumped down from her rafter, crashed through the grate, landed directly on top of the brunette, and they both fell to the floor in a heap. In an instant, Tank had her Fairbairn-Stykes fighting knife out of her boot sheath and pressed to the teenager's jugular vein; she heard Reaper drop down behind her, bearing the blond young man to the ground, as well.

"You speak English?" she asked the brunette. His eyes were wide and scared, but he nodded frantically. "Good. Now, you're going to show us the way out of here. Do you understand?"

"Y-Yes," the teenager stuttered with a thick accent. Tank glared into his sky-blue eyes.

"Good." She pressed the knife harder to his throat, and he whimpered. "You make one wrong move, and you die. You lead us to your motherfuckin' buddies, and I'll use you as a human shield faster than you can fucking shit yourself."

"Y-Yes," he stammered again. Tank frowned.

"Is that all you can say?"

"N-No," the teenager said. "I-I s-speak English best in m-my class."

"Good," Tank purred, and seized the teenager's shoulder. "And don't forget, I can kill you in about fifty different ways before you can so much as blink. No sudden moves."

The teenager swallowed. Tank got off of him and slowly stood him up, grabbing his arm and twisting it up behind his back while keeping her knife at his throat. As he whimpered slightly in some pain, Tank studied his face with some fake amusement.

She didn't even acknowledge the searing agony lancing up her arms and across her midsection.

"Reaper," she called. Reaper grunted in return, and she glanced back at him to see that he had his KA-BAR at the blond's throat and was restraining the other teenager much like she was restraining hers.

"He looks like you," Tank observed, turning her attention back to the brunette young man. "You two related?"

Reaper scoffed quietly. "No living relatives 'cept my sister."

Tank smiled slightly, and spoke to the young man. "Now, you'll lead us out of this place. And remember what I'll do to you if you try to take us to your comrades, Red."

The brunette teenager swallowed and nodded slightly before pointing to a hallway to their left. Tank coerced the young man into walking, and then they were on their way.

"So, what's your name, Red?" Tank asked the teenager in her grasp as they walked.

"K-Kirill," the brunette man replied. "Alexei Kirill."

"Interesting name," Tank murmured. "So, Alexei- Or should I call you Kirill?"

"A-Alexei is fine," Alexei stuttered.

"So, Alexei, do you have any family?"

"N-No."

"Any friends?"

"N-Not really."

"Any enemies?"

"You and everyone else, except for Matvei."

"Matvei?"

"Me," grunted the blond young man in Reaper's hold. "Matvei Lazar."

"Kirill and Lazar," muttered Reaper dryly. "Why'm I not surprised?"

Tank smiled faintly, and then turned serious again, hearing footsteps up ahead. She pulled Alexei into a nearby broom closet, closely followed by Reaper and Matvei. Tank quietly kicked the door shut behind them, and pressed her ear to the portal.

"Stay quiet," she whispered into Alexei's ear. She briefly pressed the knife a little harder into his throat. Alexei whimpered faintly.

The footsteps paused outside the door. Tank glanced over at Reaper; his hazel eyes glinted green in the pale sliver of light that seeped around the doorframe.

_A brief flash of light on metal, a hand covering her mouth, and then all she could see were his eyes, his beautiful, haunting, knowing, strange eyes that were the color of the new grass in the spring._

Tank blinked at the same time that Reaper did, and then shook her head. She couldn't afford to allow herself to be distracted now. That flash of an imagined memory couldn't take her mind from escape. Tank set her expression into a deep, determined frown and looked back at the doorway.

The footsteps moved on with some murmuring in Russian.

Tank breathed a faint sigh of relief. Then she listened for a moment longer to make sure that the Russians didn't double back.

They didn't.

Tank took a breath and slid the door open again. She tightened her grip on Alexei and slipped out into the hallway, heading back down the way that they'd been going. Tank kept her senses alert, knowing all too well that Alexei could be leading them into a trap regardless of her all-too-real threats.

Eventually, they came to a steel door. Tank could feel a draft coming through it; the wind was deathly cold, and she could easily feel it through her blood-wet jumpsuit.

"Good boy," she purred into Alexei's ear. "Now, you're going to open that door, and you're going to come with me."

Tank glanced at Reaper, and nodded. "Reaper?"

A second later, there was a thud, a grunt, and then Reaper lowered Matvei's unconscious body to the floor. Then he ducked into a nearby coat room, snagged a couple of parkas, and returned to Tank and Alexei.

"Let's go," Tank whispered. Then Reaper nodded, and tugged open the door.

The blast of arctic wind that hit them almost knocked the breath from Tank's lungs with its sheer coldness. However, she steeled herself and followed Reaper out into the ice and snow with gritted teeth as Alexei gasped in her grip.

"You'll kill us all!" the teenager hissed to Reaper as they passed him. Reaper just cast the younger man a bored glare and shut the door behind them. Then they trooped out into the cold and white.

It only took about five minutes for Tank to start shivering. She wasn't wearing the parka she had come in; her jumpsuit was good for most terrain, but a frozen wasteland wasn't on the I'm-good-for-this-this-and-this list. As soon as she felt snow begin to seep down her collar, she stopped.

Reaper stopped next to her, and looked at her. He had donned the parka that she had retrieved with the rest of his equipment, as well as one of the four he had stolen from the coat room.

"I've gotta bundle up," Tank called to him over the howling of the wind. "And we have to get this little shit warm, too, else we'll both freeze."

Reaper nodded. Then he took her knife from her hand, keeping it to Alexei's jugular, and Tank stepped away from the teenager. Shivering, she untied the parka from around her waist, pulled her assault rifle and her medical pouch off of her back, and slipped the coat on. Immediately the chill of the wind was cut, and as she zipped up the coat, she also flipped the hood up around her ears, tucking her braided hair into it so that the plait was out of her way. That done, she slung her gun back across her chest along with her bag.

Then she tied the parka Reaper handed her around her aching waist, and helped Alexei into one of the ones Reaper had stolen. As she tugged the zipper up to the teenager's chin, Tank leaned in toward him until their noses were only an inch apart.

"Listen," she said to him, her voice low and dangerous, "'cause I'm only gonna tell you this once."

Alexei nodded as best he could.

"You're going to lead us to Dezhnevo," she instructed. "And then you're going to help us get across the Bering Strait. Understand?"

Alexei swallowed. "Y-Yes..."

Tank's eyes narrowed. "You sound hesitant. What is it that you aren't telling us?"

Alexei's sky-blue eyes flicked from her to the white snow behind her and back. Twice.

"T-The weather this t-time of year," he stuttered. "T-The seas will be too rough, too cold. You'll die."

"Not if you lead us," Tank stated. She straightened, and pulled away so that she could look at Reaper. "We're nineteen miles from Dezhnevo, at the least. We should try to make it before nightfall."

She turned to Alexei. Then she pulled her sidearm from its holster at her belt, and cocked it. The semiautomatic handgun clicked a little as the ammunition inside of its magazine rattled the tiniest bit. Her hand was steady as she levelled the firearm at Alexei, though her arm ached from the pain of her wounds.

"Lead on," she said, her voice dangerous. Reaper released the teenager with a jerk, causing the younger man to stumble slightly. Alexei recovered himself, glared briefly at Reaper, flipped the hood up over his head, and trudged forward through the blinding snow. Reaper paused only long enough to give Tank her knife back.

His eyes met hers, and his fingers brushed the back of Tank's hand as he let the knife slip into her palm.

_"I remember the home of the dragon-men... the endless winter. They know snow and ice like no other living men... but they know nothing of our spring..."_

A flash of green eyes had Tank blinking and frowning in some confusion. Then she shook her head and sheathed the Fairbairn-Stykes fighting knife and followed after Reaper, who had moved on after that brief touch.

She didn't think of anything other than trekking through the blinding snow... especially not of how eerily much the man in that vision had looked like Reaper.

The day grew colder the longer it wore on, and by the time the trio had covered almost ten miles they were tired, hungry, and on the verge of hypothermia. When Tank, who had been walking ahead of Reaper and Alexei, finally stopped, staring around the snow-drifted tundra, she was shivering violently.

She turned to the men in the light of the setting sun.

"We need to find or make shelter for the night, before it gets too cold," she stated. "Once the sun goes down it's gonna get so fucking far below freezing that your balls'll fall off at the slightest movement."

Reaper cast her an irritable glance as they drew abreast of her. His eyelashes, eyebrows, and the stubble on his chin were encrusted with ice and snow. Tank guessed that she must look similar, with her bangs whipping into her face. Alexei was not much better off than Reaper.

Tank turned to Alexei. "I think you know what'll happen if you try to escape," she said, "and what'll happen if you don't help dig a shelter. I'm gonna trust you, for now." She paused, staring sternly into the sky-blue gaze. "Can I trust you, Alexei Kirill?"

"Yes," Alexei said firmly. Tank was slightly surprised by the level of his conviction. However, she brushed it off and holstered her pistol.

Then she, Reaper, and Alexei wordlessly began to dig a shelter in a deep drift that had accumulated.

Within minutes, Tank's hands were numb even through her gloves. However, she kept digging; they would freeze to death if she didn't. Soon she had dug an opening small enough for Reaper, the tallest and broadest of the three of them, to crawl through. Now she focused on widening out a small cavern behind it.

To her great relief, Tank hit a large air pocket that butted up against a large rock. She turned to grin slightly at Reaper, and he stared back at her thoughtfully for a second.

_His hands were on her face, and he was kissing her, deeply, passionately, his body so deliciously firm and warm against hers as he slid into her, filling her, completing her, that she moaned his name into the damp coldness of the cave, nestled on a bed of animal skins as they made love into the night..._

Tank looked away with a faint gasp, frowning at the vivid memory. Where were the images coming from?! She had never lived that! ...Had she?

Shaking herself, Tank worked on carefully drilling a few air holes up through the crust of the snow using her KA-BAR. Swallowing to wet her suddenly dry throat, Tank brushed snow out of her eyes when it fell into them. Then she stripped out of her outer parka. Reaper handed her his outer coat, his gaze intense as he did so, and Alexei surrendered his second parka, as well, when Tank held out her hand for it.

She wordlessly crawled with aching arms to the entrance of the ice-cave, and stuffed the coats into the opening, packing some snow from the floor around them to seal off any drafts. It was complete.

Though a little bit cramped, Tank knew that their man-made cave would shelter them from the blizzard and from the frigid temperatures. After all, snow was made up of frozen water and a lot of air; it was a spectacular insulator. They would be warm enough, once their body heat started to seep into the surrounding air.

She crawled back to sit next to Reaper, too worn and in too much pain to stand, even though the space was large enough that she could walk if she stooped at the waist. Tank removed and set aside her assault rifle and medical pouch before she plopped down next to him. Then she unzipped her parka and reached into one of the pouches of her vest.

She drew out two protein energy bars, and tossed one to Reaper and the other to Alexei.

"Eat," she said to their questioning looks. "You need to keep your strength up."

Reaper glanced from her to his bar and back again. "Tank, what about you?"

Tank smiled shakily at her husband. "I'll survive, Reaper."

She paused, a memory of her medical instructor flashing through her head. "Did you know that women are physically made to withstand the cold better than men?"

Reaper and Alexei blinked at her, Alexei with his mouth half-full.

"No, I didn't know that," Reaper admitted quietly. He studied Tank thoughtfully. "Why're women built for withstanding cold, and not men?"

Tank shrugged with a slight wince, zipping up her parka again and snuggling into its heat-trapping material.

"I'd imagine it has something to do with the fact that women, when pregnant, have to carry a baby for nine months," she guessed, her voice raw. "During which she must provide for it energy, nutrients, oxygen, warmth... She protects the baby with her very body. This, obviously, would include protection from the cold."

Tank sighed, closing her eyes tiredly. "A woman's body is generally optimized for childbearing and all the hardships that come with it."

"...Interesting," Reaper murmured quietly. Tank cracked open an eye to look at her husband. He still hadn't even opened his power bar.

"You should eat that," she murmured, yawning sleepily. "I've got enough fat on me to go a couple days yet without a meal, and it also acts as insulation since it's all superficial to my muscles."

She slowly reached out to poke Reaper in the arm. "You guys carry fat beneath your muscles. That allows you to keep your manly physique, grow stronger, and burn it faster, but that also means that you have less stored energy, less insulation. You'll lose heat and energy the colder you get. You should eat while you can, and make it last."

"Yeah," Alexei muttered. Tank looked over at him to see him staring mournfully at the second half of his power bar. Then he sighed and wrapped it back up before tucking it into an inner pocket of his parka.

Tank smiled faintly, looking back at Reaper as he finally unwrapped his power bar. She was surprised, however, when he broke it in half and tossed one piece to her.

"I'm a Marine, too, Tank," Reaper stated. "I can handle this."

Tank sighed, and nibbled the corner off of the power bar, savoring it in her mouth for a second despite the rumblings of hunger in her belly that demanded she swallow. Then she bit off another small bite, and another. Next to her, Reaper also took in his protein bar, eating it slowly.

Tank stopped at about a quarter of the bar, and stuck the remainder of it into her pocket with a resigned sigh. Then she turned to Reaper.

"How's your head doing?" she asked. Reaper finished putting away the rest of his food, and looked over at his wife. Outwardly he was calm, but Tank could see the way that the corners of his eyes were pinched with pain.

"A bit better than it was," he said. Which translated to _My head fucking hurts, isn't there anything you can do to help me?_

"I'm glad," Tank murmured. That translated to _I'm sorry I can't give you anything more right now, you'll have to wait a while longer._

"Alexei?" Tank questioned softly. The sound easily reached the teenager. "How're you holding up?"

Alexei shrugged. "Well enough," he admitted. "I've been warmer, but I'm not freezing my balls off."

"Good," Tank murmured. Then she painfully stretched out on her back as much as the small cave would allow her to, and burrowed into her parka.

"C'mon, Reaper, I know your head's not doing too well," she croaked good-naturedly. "I've been told I make a decent pillow."

Reaper snorted, but scooted over to her to lay down on his side with his head pillowed upon Tank's belly. "You _are_ a good pillow."

Tank hissed with pain. "Glad I could be of service," she gasped.

Reaper lifted his head off of her stomach so that he could stare at her. "You're in pain."

Tank groaned faintly. "Yeah."

"Where and what from?"

"Everywhere, really," she admitted absently. She winced again as her arms, back, and midsection all throbbed, a bone-deep ache lancing through her body.

"And what caused it?" Reaper prompted when she didn't elaborate after a few seconds. Tank visibly hesitated.

"Tank!" Reaper snapped, his patience growing thin. Tank winced.

"They punched me a few times," she stated.

"And what else?"

Tank's wince turned into a grimace. Then she noticed Alexei staring at her.

"What?" she croaked. The teenager's eyes flicked to her arms, and then to her stomach, and Tank knew that he knew what had happened to her.

"I heard a woman's screams earlier today," he said quietly. "A couple of men dragged somebody with a bag over their head past my post a little while later, and then I heard someone talking about knives and salt."

"'Knives and salt'?!" echoed Reaper, his eyes blazing as he sat up and looked down at his wife. Tank finally sighed, closing her eyes briefly.

"They wanted information, okay?" she rasped. "When I wouldn't give it to them, they decided to force it out of me."

"Jesus, Tank!" Reaper exclaimed. His hand landed roughly on her shoulder, and she yelled with pain at the contact as he pulled her up into a sitting position. Tank panted through the agony and glared at her husband.

"_What_ the _fuck_, Reaper?!" she gasped hoarsely. Reaper glared at her and unzipped her parka, pulling it off of her before also divesting her of her flak jacket.

He unzipped her jumpsuit to her crotch a second later. Tank yelped raggedly when he yanked her sleeves down to her elbows, exposing her shoulders and upper arms to the cold air.

All was silent for a second. Two gazes, one a horrified hazel and the other a mortified blue, stared at her bared wounds.

"...Fuck," Reaper breathed after a stunned moment. He reached out to dazedly trace his finger along one of the long cuts on Tank's upper arm. She flinched away with a hiss as the salt and oil from his skin was transferred into the already burning wound.

"Don't touch it!" she gasped out. Reaper frowned and focused, leaning forward to examine the cut more closely.

"What's in it?" he demanded. Tank panted for a second. A bead of sweat slid down her temple.

"Salt," she finally rasped. Reaper stared at her. Then he swore under his breath and spun away from his wife, driving his fist into the ground.

Tank watched him, shaking slightly in the cold and in her pain. Reaper was furious, though not at her. His touch, however, was gentle when he turned back to her a second later and laid a hand on her cheek.

"We need to wash these out," he murmured to her. "Before they get infected."

Tank could have sobbed at the notion, but nodded. She worked on stripping down to her skivvies as Reaper reached for her medical bag and dug through it for the supplies he would need.

"You'd better not look, Alexei, or I'll shoot your fucking nuts off," she gasped out as she shivered in the cold air. Alexei blinked, and then hurriedly turned around.

_Smart move._

Once she was sure that Alexei wasn't watching, Tank took a shaking breath and pulled her KA-BAR out of her belt. Then she carefully cut through the straps and side of her bra until she could pull it off and toss it aside. Her nipples immediately constricted when they were exposed to the frigid surroundings.

_Fuck, it's cold!_

Reaper watched her for a second as she also ponderously cut away her boyshort underwear. Then he moved a little closer to her, placed his hands on her waist, and turned her so that her back was to him.

"Thanks, Reaps," Tank whispered, realizing that he had purposefully blocked her from Alexei's view, should the teenager decide to turn around and sneak a glance.

Reaper just brushed a feather-light caress across her left side in reply before removing his hands, twisting to grab the canteen of clean water that Tank had had stored in her bag. He tore open a gauze pad, wet it down with the icy water, and set to work.

Tank gasped and whimpered, stiffening as he drew the cold cloth across the first of her wounds, but eventually she quieted as she fell into a daze, hunched over, almost naked, in the cold air of their ice cave.

_Damn, it hurts..._

Her eyes drifted to a rivulet of red water that ran down her chest and stomach to pool in her navel.

_...but he's so gentle..._

A hiss escaped her when he accidentally pressed a little too hard into one of her deeper cuts. Reaper murmured an apology, and Tank bit her lip again and slumped to rest her elbows upon her knees.

"C-Could you hurry?" she gasped after a minute, her teeth chattering. "M-My ass is f-fucking f-freezing, and c-certain extremities are b-beginning to run the risk of g-getting f-frostbite."

"I'm trying," Reaper muttered. His hands left Tank's shoulders for a moment, and then he reached in with a clean, dry gauze pad to gently dab the water off of her skin. Tank's shivering decreased a little. Within seconds, he had finished the task, and he began to bandage her shoulders and arms.

The gauze wrappings helped to insulate Tank from the cold a little bit, but she still shivered rather violently until he pulled away again. Then she heard the sound of something unzipping, the sound of velcro coming apart, and the sound of another zipper coming down. A second later, Reaper gently pressed up against her back, mindful of her wounds. Tank gasped from the sudden warmth, and snuggled into his chest, which he had exposed to the air.

"Good," he whispered, gently rubbing his hands up and down Tank's forearms, then her thighs. "There you go, warm up some."

"T-Thanks," Tank stuttered, still shivering. Reaper didn't reply, just brought the wet gauze pad around to her midriff to clean out those cuts, as well. Tank couldn't fight back the pained whimper that escaped her mouth when the soiled cloth came into contact with her wounds, but she simply squirmed back into Reaper's chest, bringing her closer to his warmth.

"That fucking _hurts_, you know," she gasped out after a moment when she could talk relatively well again.

"I know," Reaper replied softly. "Why the fuck didn't you tell them something?"

"Would've put you in danger," she panted, voice strained, as he cleaned an especially deep cut.

"You could've lied!" he protested vehemently, though he kept his voice quiet. Tank wheezed for a second, blinking at the white wall of their shelter.

"Didn't think about it," she admitted after a little bit. "It hurt too much to think straight."

Reaper sighed, tossing away the soiled gauze pad, and pulled away from her long enough to grab a new roll of bandages. Tank leaned forward some as he started to wind the strips of linen around her midriff.

Reaper finished his task a few moments later, tying off the bandage before he reached around Tank to grab her jumpsuit. She allowed him to pull it back up to her waist, zipping it as he went. He left her chest exposed, though, and pulled her back into his chest before he grabbed her parka and covered them both with it, leaning back against the wall of the shelter with her sitting between his legs. Tank cuddled back into him, drowsy now that her pain had been greatly reduced.

"How you doing?" Reaper asked her, gently caressing her hand beneath the parka.

"Feel like I could sleep for half a week," she slurred hoarsely.

"Really."

Tank sighed, and slumped further into him. "Pain's a tiring business, Reaper."

His chuckle was gentle against her back.

"Don't I know it," he mused, tightening his grip on her waist. Tank sighed, closing her eyes.

"You're warm," she whispered.

"Your personal space heater, remember?" Reaper countered. Tank cracked a small smile.

"I called you that over Christmas, didn't I?" It was more of a statement.

"Yeah." He slipped his hand up to flick her nipple, making her jump slightly in surprise. "Then we ended up wrestling, and Destroyer got involved, and then Sarge joined in, and Portman copped a feel on you..."

"And you decked him after I kicked him in the balls," Tank sighed. "And then Sarge got him in a full nelson..."

Reaper chuckled again, his large hands covering her breasts beneath the warm parka. Tank hummed faintly with the added heat. Then she drew a deep breath and released it in a slightly contented sigh, feeling herself begin to drift off.

"Go to sleep, Tank," Reaper murmured. "I'll take care of you for tonight."

"Thanks," she whispered.

She fell asleep to the quiet murmur of voices a few moments later.

* * *

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Doom or Final Fantasy VII. XD_

_Wow, that was a doozy. Over 11,000 words. Hope you all managed to make it this far._

_The FFVII scene Tank references in the beginning of the chapter really DOES take place during the game. If you haven't seen it, go to YouTube and do a search for "FFVII - Cloud Cross-dressing" and you should get some results. It's utterly HILARIOUS, and I highly recommend it to anyone wanting a laugh._

_The torture and escape in here was a little difficult to write, as I have never been tortured before, myself. I just know very well how it feels to have salt rubbed into an open wound (cut myself while cooking once and didn't notice until I'd accidentally doused my hand with salt. Ouch), and I figured that it would make a good torture method for someone to use against Tank._

_**Note:** This story will take elements from other categories and incorporate them into it. For instance, Superman and Pathfinder will both make an appearance here, eventually. Please bear with me while I write through this (incredibly long) story I've spun._

_**Shattered Mirror01** brought up a good point after the last chapter. The question was, "Is Tank on birth control?" The answer is yes. Tank got an IUD shortly after Reaper proposed to her, since she knew that she would need it. I just seem to have forgotten to write that into the fic, for some reason. I could've sworn I had... Oh, well. It'll get in there sometime._

_A huge thank you goes out to **angel19872006** and to **Shattered Mirror01** for reviewing the last chapter. You guys rock, and I'm very glad that you liked the last one as much as you did. Hope you enjoyed this one just as much!_

_Next chapter should be posted 4-26-10._

_**-P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	32. 2042 AD Dezhnevo Russia 0750 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

_"Men and women make their own history, but they do not make it just as they please; they do not make it under circumstances chosen by themselves, but under circumstances directly encountered, given and transmitted from the past."  
--Karl Marx, __The 18th Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte_

__

**Chapter 31.**

* * *

_**2042 A.D. - ?????? - ???? hours**_

_"Reaper and Tank, I want to see you in my office on the double."_

_Reaper and Tank exchanged glances, and then shrugged at each other before they marched up the stairs and down the hall into Sarge's office. The man in question was standing on one side of the room, a pair of patches sitting on the table beside him. Tank recognized them as the patches denoting the rank of Corporal._

_"You wanted to see us, sir?" she asked, coming to attention next to Reaper. Sarge nodded._

_"For your good work during your recent missions, as well as the leadership skills and military knowledge you've displayed, the government has seen fit to promote you both to the rank of Corporal," he stated. Tank blinked, watching as he turned, picked up the patches, and then handed the pieces of cloth to them._

_Tank took hers, a feeling of surreality coming over her._

_"T-Thank you, sir," she murmured. Reaper's expression was unreadable. Sarge looked knowingly at them, a small smirk curling the corner of his mouth. Then he straightened up._

_"You two will have to go sew those on your uniforms, now," he told them. Tank, recognizing the veiled order, snapped into a salute._

_"Sir!" she exclaimed in unison with Reaper. Sarge nodded._

_"Dismissed, Marines," he said. Tank and Reaper saluted again, and then filed out of the room. Once in the hallway, they stopped and turned to stare at each other._

_Then Tank giggled, and hugged her husband tightly around the neck._

_"Congratulations, Corporal Grimm," she whispered in his ear. She felt more than heard Reaper chuckle as he slipped his arms around her waist._

_"Congratulations to you, too, Corporal Grimm," he returned. She was grinning broadly when she pulled back to give him a heart-stopping kiss. Reaper's arms tightened reflexively on her waist, and she felt him inhale sharply through his nose, opening his mouth to deepen the contact. Then she broke away gently, stealing a couple more chaste kisses before she slid her arms down from his neck to press her palms flat against his chest. His coat was rough against her fingertips, but it was a familiar, comforting feeling._

_"Come on," she said. "Let's go get these patches sewn on."_

_Reaper laughed again, and entwined his fingers with hers as she pulled away to lead him back downstairs._

_"Are you willing to help, then?" he asked. "Cause I can't sew properly for shit."_

_Tank's eyebrows lifted with amusement._

_"Well, I guess I'll have to teach you," she quipped. "Good thing I was forced to learn how to sew straight during my corpsman training, else you'd be in deep shit."_

_Reaper rolled his eyes, still grinning, as their boots clunked on the metal of the staircase._

_"What _would_ I do without you, O great one?" he retorted. She glanced at him mischievously, raising her eyebrows._

_"Don't answer that question," he ordered quickly, and Tank laughed out loud. Mac looked over at her, hearing the sound._

_"What's got you in such a good mood?" he asked. Tank held up her badge proudly._

_"Just got promoted!" she exclaimed jubilantly._

_Reaper just stood back and laughed as his wife was promptly tackled by Pug, who was babbling happily in German._

_Maybe learning to sew would be fun, after all._

* * *

_**2043 A.D. - Seven Miles West of Dezhnevo, Russia - 0750 hours**_

The first thing that Tank noticed when she woke up was that she was pleasantly warm. The second thing she noticed was that the thing she was resting on was breathing, and the third thing that she noticed was that her whole body ached.

Tank cracked open her eyes to take a look around.

They were still in the ice shelter that she had helped to dig the night before, and she was still laying against Reaper's chest, bundled underneath her white parka with her jumpsuit zipped to her waist. Alexei was curled up in a ball a few feet away, his head pillowed upon one arm. His breathing was deep and even, showing that the teenager was still asleep.

Reaper shifted behind her, drawing a deep breath and then releasing it in a sigh. His breathing was also deep and even, and Tank deduced that her husband must have fallen asleep sometime after she had. She sighed, and snuggled deeper into his embrace, deciding to savor the moment and the contact.

_He lifted his chin off of her bare shoulder for a moment, looking at her and opening his mouth to answer, but he was cut off by the sound of horns in the distance. The moment they'd dreaded had come._

_"They're here..."_

Tank gasped, sitting up straight as the memory flashed through her head. Then she groaned faintly and buried her face in her hand when she realized that it hadn't been real.

"What the fuck is happening to me...?" she breathed in confusion.

A pair of warm arms wrapped around her waist, and a chin came to rest on her left shoulder.

"I dunno," said Reaper, his breath warm against her skin. "What's wrong?"

Tank sighed, and leaned back against him. She didn't answer for a few moments, her brow creased in troubled thought.

"Since yesterday, I've been having these..." Tank paused, searching for a word. "...visions."

Reaper lifted his head up slightly. Tank felt his gaze on her.

"Visions, you say?" he asked, keeping his voice below a whisper. Tank sighed.

"I don't know how else to describe them," she breathed.

"Then tell me about them."

Tank hesitated for a second. Then she sighed and gave in.

Her voice was hoarse as she told him every detail about the first memory, the one where she had seen him decked out in primitive armor with kohl smeared around his eyes. Then she quieted further when Alexei grunted, and she told him about the second memory, the one about his voice where he had been talking about winter and spring and dragon-men.

Reaper leaned his head against hers when she mentioned this. "What, exactly, did I say in this vision?"

Tank swallowed, closing her eyes. She found it disconcerting that she could quote the phrase word for word.

"You said 'I remember the home of the dragon-men'," she began in a whisper. "You paused, and I think you were adjusting something around my shoulders... an animal skin of some kind. You continued, '...the endless winter. They know snow and ice like no other living men... but they know nothing of our spring'. I don't know where these memories are coming from, Reaper..."

"Memories?"

"That would be a better word to describe them, yes," Tank sighed. "They're too vivid to be just dreams or imagined, and I'm definitely not clairvoyant."

She continued on to describe the third memory, of them making love in the stone cave on a bed of animal skins.

"You _moaned_ my name?"

Tank smiled slightly, but it was brief. "Yeah, but it wasn't _your_ name. It was you, I thought, but not you, at the same time..."

"What name did you cry, then?" Reaper was curious, Tank could sense, so she decided to humor him.

"It was something along the lines of 'Ghost' or something," she murmured with a slight frown. "It was almost scary how much the man looked like you... He could've been your identical twin, in both looks and temperament."

"I'm a fraternal twin," Reaper deadpanned, raising an eyebrow. "And my twin is a girl."

Tank smirked. "Maybe there's something your mom and dad never told you."

Reaper sighed. "What? That I was actually a triplet, and that my identical twin brother was separated from me at birth for our safety?"

Tank twisted around in his arms, raising her eyebrows in some surprise. "Are you psychic?"

"Just continue..."

Tank grinned, and leaned back into his chest, again.

Then came the fourth memory, the one that she had just had.

"You say you just saw this one a few minutes ago?" Reaper prompted. Tank sighed and nodded.

"Yeah," she whispered. "It was so vivid... I could feel the stubble on your chin, the way your hair tickled my shoulder. Your hair was so long, too, almost shoulder-length, and it looked like you hadn't bathed in a few days... And the horns that I heard... They sounded like something out of an old King Arthur movie, or something."

She paused. "And the dread that I felt when you said that 'They' had come... It felt like my heart just stopped beating for a second, I was so scared..."

They fell silent for a moment. Then, "What were you scared of?"

"Losing you," Tank answered without hesitation. "Being killed. Not having a life with you..."

Tank trailed off, unable to continue.

They sat there in comfortable quiet for a little while. Tank just leaned against Reaper, content to take in his warmth while she pondered over the memories that she had been seeing. However, the time eventually came when she sensed the sun above their shelter. Tank sighed, and leaned forward slightly so that she could gingerly pull her jumpsuit's sleeves up over her arms and shoulders again.

"Are you still hurting?" Reaper asked softly. Tank sighed as she tugged her zipper back up to her throat.

"Yeah," she grunted. "I'm gonna hurt for a while, Reaper."

Reaper didn't reply, but instead drew her back to his chest with a quiet sigh. "Can we stay like this? Just for a little while longer."

Tank smiled slightly. "Alexei'll start to suspect something."

"He already guessed it last night," Reaper mumbled, pressing his lips to the side of her neck. Tank sighed contentedly, and snuggled back into him.

"And what did you tell him?"

"That it was none of his fucking business," Reaper said into her neck, his voice a low growl.

"Anything else?"

"Only that you're off-limits." Tank chuckled at his reply, and turned her face up to his in order to stare him in the eye.

"Really," she drawled sarcastically. "And here I thought I could just go around and screw anybody I wanted..."

Reaper growled, and nipped her neck possessively. "Yeah fucking right."

Tank giggled quietly. "Control freak."

"Sarcastic wench."

"Man-whore."

"You bitch," he grumbled playfully.

"Love you, too, prick."

"And you're lucky I do, you walking mattress." He grunted a second later when she almost-gently drove her elbow into his gut.

"There's no need to get crass, Reaper," she chided light-heartedly. "Wouldn't want you starting to sound like a shit-brick."

"Like Sarge, you mean."

Tank turned around and cast him a glance full of mock-surprise. "Really? I thought that the two were synonymous."

They dissolved into quiet laughter. Tank was glad to see her husband grinning for the first time in a while. Eventually, however, they silenced themselves when a grunt sounded from Alexei. Tank glanced at the slowly waking young man, and then she turned up to Reaper.

A quick peck on his mouth, and then she pulled away from him. Reaper sighed and zipped up his jumpsuit. He wordlessly put his vest back on and zipped up his parka.

Tank, meanwhile, donned her flak vest, wincing when her movements tugged at her healing wounds. Then she tugged her elbow pads back on. After that came her parka, and then she clipped her belt back around her waist- when had it come off, again?- before she pulled her medical pouch over her shoulder. She sighed when she realized that Reaper hadn't packed it back up again the night before, and she hurriedly stuffed the unused supplies back into it.

Alexei mumbled something in Russian as he stirred into wakefulness, and then he yelped when his disoriented mind took in what he was seeing.

Tank had her sidearm out and cocked in an instant. The barrel was aligned with Alexei's forehead.

A moment passed, and then two. Then Alexei sighed and sagged back against the wall of the shelter.

"For a moment there, I forgot where I was," he explained sheepishly. Tank narrowed her eyes and exchanged a look with Reaper.

"Don't forget it again," Tank warned hoarsely, turning her gaze back to the teenager. "I might have to shoot you."

"I will try not to," Alexei promised, his accent thickening slightly as he eyed the gun distrustfully. Tank rolled her eyes and shook her head, pointing the semi-automatic pistol up toward the ceiling for a second while she depressed the hammer. The firearm clicked quietly with moving parts as it went back to a safer mode.

"Come on," Reaper grunted. "We need to make for Dezhnevo, try to reach it today. The only way we're going to make it before sundown is if we start now and keep up a quick pace."

"Right," sighed Tank. She grabbed her assault rifle, slung its strap across her chest, and crawled over to the entrance of their ice cave. Tank glanced back at Reaper and Alexei. Reaper had clipped on his belt and strapped on his rifle. Both of them were pulling their hoods up.

"Here we go," Tank said. Then she faced forward, reached out, and pulled the spare parkas out of the entrance where she had stuffed them the night before.

A gust of arctic wind made Tank shiver, but it died down after a second, allowing sunlight to pour inside their shelter. Tank blinked at the onrush of golden illumination and at the fact that she could actually _see_ the sky. The blizzard from the day and night before seemed to have died down, at least temporarily.

Tank crawled out of their shelter, still blinking in the sunlight. She flipped her hood up to cut some of the glare.

"Wow," she breathed, looking around.

Everything in sight, in all directions, was white, a blinding, glaring, pure white that Tank had never before seen save for during the coldest, snowiest days of the Missouri winter.

"This must be what the light of God looks like," Tank murmured, squinting to see past the light reflected off of the snow. "If this can even come at all close, then I don't think I'll ever be afraid to die."

"That's a pleasant thought," Alexei commented, emerging behind Tank.

"That sounds like a Fiddler's Green," Reaper put in quietly as he poked his head out of the hole. "Move your ass, Kirill, before I shoot it out of my way."

Alexei moved to the side without complaint to allow Reaper to exit the shelter, and soon the three of them were standing side by side on the frozen tundra. Tank handed the men their parkas. A few minutes passed in silence. Then Tank sighed and turned to the southeast.

"Come on," she said. Then she began to walk. She was followed by Alexei, and then Reaper, who brought up the rear. Tank pulled her compass out of her vest in order to keep her bearings straight as they walked.

The time seemed to pass slowly as the miles passed beneath their feet. Due to the fact that it was early March, the sun didn't stay up for more than a few hours in the day. Tank wanted to get as far as possible before they had to stop and make another shelter.

Just as the sun began to set again, the trio began to see a dark smudge on the horizon.

"The ocean?" Tank queried softly when she saw it. Then she shook her head. "No, it can't be. It's too small."

"Probably Dezhnevo," Alexei supplied, drawing abreast of Tank. "We're probably about two miles away from it."

Tank grinned, and Reaper released a breath of relief.

"About time," Reaper muttered. "Come on, let's get to it before nightfall."

Tank and Reaper immediately bounded forward. Alexei stared after them for an instant before he yelped and followed. He stumbled a few times, but caught himself and eventually caught up to the two Marines.

After a mile, Alexei was panting heavily, but Tank and Reaper were barely winded. They slowed to a walk to allow the Russian teenager to recover some, and then they continued on as the sun finally dipped below the horizon.

They made it into Dezhnevo about a half hour after sundown, after one sprint and a couple of stints of walking. Tank and Reaper allowed Alexei to take the lead down the main street. The first time they spotted someone walking around, Tank gently laid a hand on Alexei's arm and leaned up to his ear.

"You're going to ask them where the nearest inn is," she said, "and then you're going to inquire about a store. Understand?"

Alexei nodded, and they approached the man on the street soon after.

The man was tall, blond, with cold blue eyes. Alexei exchanged some words with the man in Russian, and the man eyed Reaper and Tank distrustfully before gesturing down the street toward a decently-sized establishment.

"Nice place," Reaper muttered to his wife, his eyes scanning the area. Tank hid a smirk.

Alexei said something else before he led Tank and Reaper away.

"He says that this is the only inn in the town," the teenager explained once they entered the place. He pulled down the hood of his parka and ran his hand through his dark brown hair, brushing a few stray particles of snow out of it.

"He also said that it doubles as the local general store," he continued as they peered around the establishment. "Come on, the owner here owes me a couple of favors."

Tank blinked at him as he led on. "You've been here before?"

"Used to live here," Alexei supplied. "This inn tends to... erm, how do you say? ...move around a lot, so I never know if it's going to be in the same spot when I come in. That's why I had to ask for directions."

"I see," Reaper muttered. Alexei brushed the comment off and walked up to the counter, behind which stood a young-looking woman with pale brown hair and pale green eyes. Tank came up behind him, switching on her insta-translator as she went.

"...We have two rooms free," the woman was saying. "You can help yourself to them and supper, Kirill, but you'll have to pay for any supplies you need."

Tank laid a hand on Alexei's shoulder. The young man turned to face her. Tank smiled kindly at the woman.

"Ask her how much it'll be for a roll of bandages, some clean, hot water, and a bottle of peroxide," Tank instructed Alexei. Alexei nodded, and then relayed the message to the woman.

"Three hundred and forty-six rubles," the innkeeper replied. Alexei's eyes grew wide.

"Three hundred and forty-six?!" he exclaimed. "That's a steal!"

Tank laid a restraining hand on Alexei's arm, and then turned to the woman. "Tell her that her payment will be that she will not bring an elite squad of soldiers down upon her head."

Alexei blinked, and then passed on the message to the innkeeper, who blinked and frowned.

"Elite squad of soldiers?" she repeated, the tinny voice in Tank's ear telling her what the woman was saying. "Which one? Russian or American?"

"American," Tank stated. "Tell her that the squad is one of the most elite in the country, and that nothing she and her people could throw at them would be enough to keep the soldiers from razing this town to the ground."

Alexei blanched, but he repeated the words to the woman in Russian. The woman paled.

"Fine," she finally said. "Take what you need, but do not expect any other help."

"Thank her," Tank ordered, and then turned and walked back to Reaper after taking the old-fashioned metal key that the woman put on the desk. Reaper cast her a sidelong glance as she beckoned for him to follow her.

"We have a room for the night and supper," Tank explained, leading him up the stairs to the second level. "She also agreed to give us some bandages, hot water, and peroxide after we did a little haggling."

"By haggling you mean you told her that Sarge wouldn't flatten her establishment," Reaper deduced, raising an eyebrow. Tank smirked at her husband.

"You know me too well, dearest," she quipped. Reaper shot her a pointed look.

"I know _Sarge_ too well," he deadpanned. "You're a close second."

Tank just chuckled, and fiddled with the doorknob of the door whose numerals matched those on the tag of her key. The knob came unlocked after a moment, and Tank entered the room, pistol drawn. Reaper came in behind her, his own pistol out as he flipped on the lights.

"Clear," Tank announced after she had scanned the room. Reaper nodded, looking briefly underneath the bed.

"Clear," he concurred. Then Tank closed the door behind them and settled her weapons and medical pouch down on the small table in the corner of the room. Reaper set his things on the chair, and they both stripped off their belts and outer parkas. Tank glanced at the window as they also removed their flak vests.

"Bit drafty," she muttered. She glanced at Reaper. "Hope you don't mind sleeping in the nude tonight, 'cause if we keep our clothes on, it'll be a bit too cold."

Reaper looked at her, and Tank got the distinct impression that he was undressing her with his eyes.

"Do you honestly think I would _mind_ sleeping naked with you?" he asked. Tank smiled, and it was a sultry look.

"Hmm," she murmured. "I don't know... You might have to work for it."

Reaper moved closer to her, close enough to touch. "Would you be up to it?"

Tank shrugged, and winced faintly as her wounds pulled a bit. "Maybe."

Reaper scrutinized her. "We might have to get creative..."

Tank inched up to him, and then raised herself up on tip-toe so that her lips hovered an inch away from his. Her hands came up to lightly grasp his arms.

"I dunno if I'd mind," she whispered. Reaper growled quietly, and started to lean down toward her. However, a knock at the door interrupted them, and they reluctantly pulled away. Tank went to answer the door.

It was Alexei, holding a tray of the medical supplies Tank had requested in one hand, and in the other, he was holding a tray of food.

"Could you help some?" he pleaded. Tank quickly took the medical supplies from him and set them down on the floor next to the foot of the bed.

"Thanks," she told him, and then took the food from him, as well. She eyed the red soup with some apprehension. "What's for dinner?"

"Borscht," Alexei replied, "and freshly-baked bread, with vodka to drink."

Tank nodded. "Will you join us?"

Alexei blinked, and then smiled shyly. "Sure."

"Close the door behind you," Tank ordered, walking back into the middle of the room. Alexei did as he was told, totally missing the exasperated, 'What-the-fuck-do-you-think-you're-doing' look that Reaper shot Tank. Alexei also missed the 'Deal-with-it-you-fucking-pussy' look that Tank returned to Reaper.

Reaper rolled his eyes with a grimace as he sat down on the wooden floor next to Tank. The pair were soon joined by Alexei.

"So," Tank said, passing out the bowls of soup that had been placed on the tray, "what're our next plans, Reaper?"

Reaper glanced at the window, crossing his legs Indian-style while he took his bowl into his hands. "Make for the Bering Strait tomorrow, try to cross it to Big Diomede before sundown."

"But that's almost twenty-eight miles!" Alexei exclaimed, his eyes wide. "Not to mention you'll be trying to cross the shifting sea ice while you face gale-force winds!"

Tank and Reaper exchanged looks.

"Look, kid," Tank finally said, "we're Marines. I don't think that you fully understand what that means."

"Then explain it to me!" Alexei demanded. Tank frowned slightly, and took a sip of her soup.

"Twenty-eight miles is a stretch," she admitted, "but we _can_ make it, if we stagger walking and running to conserve our energy. As for the ice, I was on an icebreaker for a year before I went into the Marines as a corpsman. I know how to deal with it. The wind is bearable, also."

"But you do not know sea ice!" Alexei protested. "You will be killed!"

"Kirill," Reaper said, his voice quiet but firm. Alexei turned to the older man to find Reaper's hazel gaze boring a hole in him. "If you want to come with us, you're shit out of luck."

Tank sighed. "You won't be able to keep up with us."

"I was the fastest runner in the fields!" Alexei protested again, his voice pleading. "I can keep up!"

"You don't have the stamina," Reaper said flatly. He jabbed his spoon pointedly at Alexei's chest. "After one mile you were winded, and we had to slow down to allow you to rest. We can't afford to drag you along with us."

"You'd be dead weight, Alexei," Tank agreed, though her gaze was sympathetic. Alexei visibly bit back a retort.

There was silence for a second, during which Tank slurped her soup and Reaper took a bite of his bread. Alexei sat in stormy silence, staring into his borscht as though it would hold the answer to the question of life.

"What if I commandeered a team of dogs?" he asked after a few moments. "And a sled?"

"No good," Reaper immediately said. "There's three of us. One would get left behind or one would go ahead of the others."

Tank eyed Alexei thoughtfully. "You seem pretty desperate to get to America," she observed. "Why do you want to go there so badly?"

Alexei hesitated. Reaper noticed this, and sighed.

"You've done something illegal," he guessed. Alexei shook his head vigorously.

"No, of course not!" he retorted. "But I don't like the Russian government. And I'm tired of always being hungry, of never being warm."

Tank closed her eyes, pondering. Then she turned to Reaper.

"Let's take him with us," she said softly. Reaper turned a slightly surprised gaze on her.

"If he gets the dogs, then he can go ahead to Big Diomede, or he can mush alongside us," she said. "He can carry gear, too."

"Like what?" Reaper countered. "Our guns? Our ammunition? Your medical pack?"

"Blankets," Tank said. "Water. One of _us_, if we get injured or tired. We could essentially run 'round the clock, when the dogs aren't resting."

Reaper stared at her for a moment, his hazel eyes dark with thought. At last he sighed.

"We'd better pack well, then," he muttered, turning back to his food.

Alexei's face lit up like a child's on Christmas Day. "Thank you!"

"Don't thank us," Tank snapped irritably. "We still have to get the dogs, the supplies, and the sled. That's not to mention the little problem of getting across the ice to Big Diomede, and then another two point four miles to Little Diomede. That's the only place we'll be even relatively safe after we leave here, because we can't stop on Big Diomede without running the risk of getting caught."

"Right," Alexei said with a nod. He excitedly finished slurping his soup up, then grabbed his hunk of bread and got to his feet.

"Where're you off to?" asked Reaper suspiciously.

"Gotta scope out the dog situation in the town," Alexei explained, already halfway out the door. "And I have to see about getting a few more supplies."

"Be back before midnight," Tank instructed firmly. "You'll need your energy for tomorrow."

"Yes, ma'am," Alexei said with a nod, and then he was gone, closing the door behind him.

Tank stared at the door for a second, and then she turned back to her food with a sigh. "He reminds me of a Jack Russell terrier."

Reaper blinked at his wife. "How so?"

"Easily excitable," she said, taking a gulp of her borscht. "_Very_ easily excitable."

Reaper hummed, and bit a chunk off of his bread. "And what kind of dog are you?"

Tank paused, and then she also took a bite of her bread. "Alaskan Malamute."

"How do you figure that?"

"Kind, loyal, and dependable when I want to be," she said, closing her eyes in thought, "but a fierce and vicious fighter that'll tear someone to pieces when I'm backed into a corner."

"Not to mention hard-headed."

Tank grinned. "Glad you think so highly."

"And what about me?"

"German Shepherd," Tank replied without hesitation. She cracked open an eye to look at him as she bit off another hunk of bread. "You're strong, intelligent, loyal, protective... Obedient when you want to be... And you're downright _lethal_ when provoked."

Reaper hummed thoughtfully, and they fell silent as they polished off the last of their dinner. Then Tank took a deep breath, put her empty bowl on the tray, and crossed over to the medical supplies that she had coerced out of the landlady.

"I might need a bit of help with these," she murmured with a grimace. Reaper hummed, stacking his bowl on the tray. Tank heard him get to his feet. Then she heard the lock on the door click before he traversed the room to stand behind Tank.

"I don't think that'll be much of a problem," Reaper said. Tank smiled faintly when he slipped his arms around her waist to reach up and begin to undo her jumpsuit.

The cold air of the drafty room hit Tank's body like a sledgehammer, and she immediately began to shiver, though it wasn't nearly as bad as it had been the night before in their ice shelter. Reaper's hands were surprisingly gentle, however, when he finally guided her to sit down on the floor, keeping her jumpsuit as a barrier between her naked flesh and the cool hardwood.

"Well," he said conversationally, "at least they aren't totally soaked."

"But they've bled through, right?" Tank inquired, wincing when Reaper began to unwind the gauze from around her midsection. "Ouch!"

"Yeah," he muttered. Tank felt him pause briefly, and his hands shook for a moment before he continued to strip the bandages off of her.

"What's the matter?" Tank asked quietly. She heard a hiss of air as Reaper drew a breath. There was silence between them for a moment.

"I wish I could go back and massacre them all," he hissed at last. Tank could feel his hands shaking again.

"John..."

"I've never wanted to kill someone in cold blood, before, but-"

"Don't," Tank breathed. She laid her hands over his as he reached around her front again, and then she turned around in the embrace so that she could look him steadily in the eye.

"Don't say those kinds of things," she intoned softly. "I know you better than that. If you went back and killed all those men, it would hang over your head for the rest of your life, and you would let it eat you alive until your dying day."

Tank reached up to cradle his face between her palms. "You're a gentle man at heart, John. That's one of the reasons why I fell in love with you."

"Gentleness is a weakness," he whispered, but he didn't remove his hands from her waist. Nor did he look away from her unusually open gaze.

"Only in the case of the Marines," Tank murmured pointedly. Reaper raised an eyebrow.

"We _are_ Marines, Amanda," he said. Tank nodded.

"For now, yes," she hedged levelly. "But there're going to be things after that. We're going to grow old together, have children, have grandchildren come to visit us at our home in the countryside."

Reaper finally cracked a small smile. "What makes you think I wanna have brats running around annoying the hell out of me?"

Tank chuckled. "Just preparing you."

_That_ caught Reaper's attention.

"What are you trying to tell me?" he asked warily.

"Nothing," Tank replied simply.

"Are you pregnant?"

"Heavens, no!" she exclaimed, surprised. She shook her head. "No, I went on birth control before we were married."

"Oh." Reaper's quiet, murmured word was filled with a mix of relief and disappointment. Tank smiled, detecting his emotions.

"See?" she asked. "You'd do fine as a father, John. I can tell."

She grinned at her husband before she silently began to unwind the bandages from her shoulders.

"How do you know?"

The soft question drew Tank's attention back to her husband, and she looked up at him reassuringly as she continued to work.

"You're a lot more like _my_ father than I usually give you credit for," she observed, "and I turned out alright, didn't I?"

Tank shook her head with a gentle chuckle. "Nah. People with your type of personality generally tend to be the parents who want to coddle their children. However, with your Marine training and subsequent hard-ass-ification, you would be stern but gentle with them. They'd turn out alright."

There was a brief moment of silence while Reaper looked at her oddly.

"'Hard-ass-ification'?" Reaper questioned at last. Tank paused, and then grinned.

"Yes, before you ask, I _did_ just pull that out of my ass," she chuckled. The bandages finally came off underneath their hands. "Now could you help me with cleaning these cuts? I can't reach my shoulders very well."

* * *

_**Disclaimer:** Don't own Doom or any other references in this fic. Can you catch them?_

_I apologize for the late update- finals are encroaching on me (They literally begin this week), which makes it difficult for me to post on any of my stories. In other words, no, this is not the only story I haven't updated in FOREVER and a day. I believe that it's been almost a month since I've updated Cast Me Gently Into Morning... Shit._

_Unfortunately, this also means that updates are going to take back-burner for the moment. I'll post when I can, but don't put too many expectations on my shoulders, please and thank you._

_Kudos to anyone who can name the references I made in the ice-cave scene. :)_

_Thank you to **angel19872006** and to **Shattered Mirror01** for reviewing chapter 31. I'm glad you both liked them! Responding to **Shattered Mirror01:** I had a lot of fun writing the Russia sequences, and (strangely enough) the torture scene was my favorite part aside from the part at the inn. I wonder if that means I'm a sadist? Hee hee. *grin* Ahem. I did name the Russian boy "Kirill" on purpose; did you notice how Tank says that he and Reaper could pass for siblings? XD I thought Karl Urban was awesome in The Bourne Supremacy- just the sheer, cold **intensity** of his character drew my attention to him the most, and I found I just had to pay that fact some tribute. And what better story to put it in than a Doom story, where Karl Urban plays one of the main characters? ;P Love the new Star Trek movie, too... not enough to become a "Trekkie" as some people would put it, but enough that I sincerely enjoy the movie whenever I watch it. (Bones is my favorite character, if you couldn't tell. *giggles*) There will be a number of references other than Doom in this story, as I believe I've mentioned before. Among them are (obviously) Red vs. Blue and Final Fantasy VII, and Star Trek will be mentioned at least in passing, as will Superman. I'm not quite sure where I'm going to end this fic; I do know that it will be AFTER the movie._

_What do you guys think? Should I end it right after the movie, or should I continue with the aftermath? Hmm... Choices, choices, choices..._

_Any feedback is always welcome!_

_**P.S. Have I ever mentioned how much I absolutely HATE FFN's text editor?! It's so BUGGY! This time it won't let me underline the chapter and section titles! In the immortal words of Cid Highwind and Barret Wallace, "(&*^ this (*&%!"**_

_Next chapter should be posted 5-10-10._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	33. 2043 AD Little Diomede Alaska 2218 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_To all veterans and to all current members of the United States armed forces: Thank you all for working to give us the peace that we so often take for granted. Thank you for allowing us to sleep safely at night, for giving us the freedom to live our lives free of tyranny and free from fear. Thank you for everything you do, and for everything you sacrifice for us. We remember you on this Memorial Day."  
-Portrait of a Scribe._

_**Chapter 32.**_

_**

* * *

**_

_**2042 A.D. - ? - ? hours**_

_May 26__th__, 2042. Memorial Day._

_How long had it been? Twelve years? Thirteen? Tank sighed. Twelve it was. Feeling somewhat despondent, she knelt in front of the headstone and gently ran her fingers over the words carved into the white marble._

_**Robert P. Currey  
**__**PFC US Army  
**__**Cold War  
**__**Born 02-26-1967  
**__**Died 11-28-2030  
**__**Walking in Heaven.**_

_**Elizabeth J. Currey  
Born 08-14-1972  
**__**Died 11-28-2030  
**__**An angel while on earth, and an angel now in Heaven.**_

"_Hey," she whispered, her eyes tracing the words for a second time, then a third. "It's been a while, hasn't it? Right, grandma? Grandpa?"_

_She bit her lip as tears welled in her eyes, and she took a deep breath, steadying herself._

"_I guess you can already tell how much I miss you both," she continued softly, "so I won't bore you with that kind of talk. I know you're watching me, too, up in Heaven, but I think I'll fill you in on what's been going on with me, just in case." She paused. "Well, I'm in the Marines. Made Corporal a couple weeks ago. Mom and dad're real proud of me and John. Oh, that's right!"_

_Tank slipped the glove off of her left hand and held it out toward the headstone, splaying her fingers and allowing the golden sunlight to glint off of the simple, smooth wedding band that she wore constantly._

"_I got married earlier this year," she explained, smiling slightly. "His name's John Grimm, making me Amanda Grimm. He's a Marine like me, made Corporal around the same time I did. I actually met him twelve years ago, the same night that you guys got into that accident. Funny how that works, right? His parents died that same day. Seems he was raised on Olduvai. On Mars, you know." Tank laughed. "Trust me to marry a Martian."_

_She snickered for a second, able to clearly picture the look that would be on her husband's face if he heard her saying that._

"_Oh, he'd be miffed if he heard me call him that," she giggled, looking affectionately back down at the headstone. "You remember Sarge, right? Dwayne Mahonin, the one I always used to rant to you about? Well, he's our CO. He was the best man at the wedding. Um… Not much more to say about that, I think. We're all getting by down here, so I hope you're doing well in Heaven."_

_Tank paused again, realizing what she'd just said, and then laughed and slapped herself lightly on the forehead._

"_Duh, Amanda," she muttered to herself. "Of course grandma and grandpa are doing well in Heaven. It's __**Heaven.**__ God's taking good care of them." Still chuckling, she turned her attention back down to the tombstone._

"_Well, he's waiting for me by the bike," she told it. "I'd probably better get going. But I guess… I guess I wanted to say thank you to grandpa, for serving in the army all those years ago. It's because of people like you, grandpa, that people are still able to sleep at night without fear of tyranny or terrorism. Happy Memorial Day, grandpa, and thanks a lot."_

_Pressing a kiss to her fingertips, Tank brushed her fingers fondly over the cross carved into the top of the headstone and then shifted the bouquet of flowers in her arms into the cup specially provided for such a purpose, finally sticking it in the ground next to the headstone. She knew that the flowers themselves would probably be gone by the next day- Jefferson Barracks cemetery was notorious for its deer population- but it was the thought that counted._

"_Love you guys," she said, and then she got to her feet, saluted, and turned around, heading briskly toward the avenue again. Reaper was waiting for her, leaning against the side of her brother's motorcycle, which they had borrowed for this occasion. Tank could see that his eyes were dark with emotion, though she couldn't tell what he was thinking. Around her ankles, tiny American flags flapped in the slow, tepid breeze, a quiet symphony of cloth snapping and grass rustling and trees rattling barely audible over the distant sound of the traffic on Telegraph road. It was a strangely peaceful combination._

_He looked up at her as she neared him, blinking to focus back into his immediate surroundings._

"_All done?" he asked, shifting before he straightened up. Tank nodded wordlessly, and came forward to slip her arms around his middle, burying her face in his shoulder in search of some comfort. Reaper wrapped his arms around her. Tank felt him kiss the top of her head before he rested his chin on her hair, taking a deep breath. Tank drew a shuddering inhalation and pressed herself closer, uncaring that it was ninety degrees out and that they were both sweaty._

_It was several moments before Tank was able to banish the burning in her eyes. She felt Reaper reach up and place his hand on the back of her head, a gesture meant to impart comfort._

"_You okay?" he asked, his voice quiet in her ear. She drew another shaky breath._

"_I will be," she said, and tried to ignore the lump in her throat that was making her voice come out strangled. "Just… Just hold me?"_

_His arm settled back around her shoulders again in response, squeezing her gently._

_A few more minutes passed._

"_I miss them," Tank confessed quietly. Reaper didn't reply, just stood there. Tank knew that he was listening._

"_I miss crocheting with grandma," she whispered, "and watching grandpa in his workshop. He used to do woodwork. Dad… Dad tells a story of how grandpa made this beautiful crown molding for a house they were trying to sell…"_

_She trailed off as the burning in her eyes returned with a vengeance and finally spilled over, her breath hitching. Her fingers curled into the back of Reaper's shirt as she clutched him tightly to her. Reaper didn't do anything but hold her close and let her cry into his shoulder, pretending that she wasn't weeping._

"_Gosh," Tank choked out a few seconds after she broke down. "This is so embarrassing!"_

_Reaper shushed her gently. "You have nothing to be ashamed of," he told her._

_And she believed him._

_

* * *

_

_**2043 A.D. - Half a Mile West of Little Diomede, Alaska, United States - 2218 hours**_

Tank gasped heavily in surprise and exhaustion as the ice beneath her feet shifted again, but she quickly leapt to safety and continued running.

They'd set out from Dezhnevo early that morning. Alexei had commandeered a team of dogs and a sled as he had said he would, and had also managed to secure a set of blankets and a supply of fresh water. They'd risen at 0500 hours, and by 0600 hours the trio had left the mainland behind and were crossing the sea ice that spanned between Russia and her provincial island of Big Diomede.

The ice had proven to be more treacherous than Tank had remembered, and twice, while running, she had almost fallen through it when a chasm had suddenly opened or a floe had suddenly broken off due to the violent winds.

The temperature at that time had been around eight below. The wind chill was probably negative twenty.

At noon, they'd stopped for an hour to allow the dogs to rest, and afterwards, Tank had gotten to ride on the sled while Reaper loped along beside them. His long legs carried him easily over the snow-covered ice. Three times, the lead dog, whom Alexei told them was named Togo, had saved them from going into a perilous patch of the ice, and another two times, Reaper had been saved in the nick of time by his extensive Marine training and excellent reflexes.

Tank had promptly decided that she absolutely _hated_ sea ice when he'd had an especially close call.

At around six in the evening, they'd reached Big Diomede, and switched off again after letting the dogs rest.

Now it was around 2220 hours, and Tank was running again. They'd skirted the southern edge of Big Diomede to avoid detection by the Russians on the island, and then they'd passed over the ice between the islands. Currently, through the nighttime gloom, Tank could make out the lights of the village of Diomede, Alaska, a half-mile off.

Suddenly, a loud cracking sound echoed like a gunshot from in front of her. Tank gasped, her heart jumping into her throat, as the section of ice she was running on began to detach from the rest of the land-fast.

"Tank!" she heard Reaper and Alexei shout. She panted as she sprinted to the edge of the floe and took a flying leap to the other side.

Tank made it with just a second to spare, as the ice she'd just been on suddenly plummeted into the ocean with a roar. She landed on the other side of the chasm with a hard impact that wrenched her left knee and knocked the breath from her lungs. For a long moment, she just lay there, prone and gasping, until Reaper reached her and knelt next to her.

"You okay?" he asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Tank nodded, but winced when her still-healing wounds throbbed. "I will be."

"Come on," Reaper murmured, and pulled her to her feet. "Rest for a while. It's a half-mile to Diomede. I can run it."

Tank sighed, grimaced as her left knee pulsed with pain, and handed over the flashlight she had been using to see where she was going. "Be careful."

Reaper nodded, taking the moonbeam. Tank limped gingerly over to where Alexei was waiting with the dogs and sled.

"What's going on?" Alexei asked as she neared him.

"I'm riding for now," Tank explained, wincing. "My wounds are bothering me, and I twisted my knee when I landed just now."

"Ouch," Alexei muttered. "Get on. We need to get to the island as quickly and safely as possible. I don't want to be out here at midnight. It's already cold enough."

"I hear you," Tank grumbled as she clambered almost clumsily onto the sled. "I have no desire to get caught out in fifty-below temperatures."

Thirty seconds later, they were off again.

It took them about ten minutes to reach the town of Diomede a half-mile away. Tank and Alexei went first, working to get the sled up the slight embankment while Reaper waited on the ice several yards away. It was just as the sled made it to dry land that a crack like a gunshot rang out, shortly followed by Reaper's startled shout.

Tank spun around, her heart pounding, just in time to see Reaper vanish underneath the ice.

"_Reaper!_" she screamed, dashing out onto the ice, ignoring the pain in her knee. She threw herself prone five feet from the edge of the hole and belly-crawled to the lip of the opening. Tank couldn't see him, though her eyes frantically searched the dark water for her husband's form.

"Do you see him?" Alexei called from the shore. Tank ignored him, breathing rapidly in her panic.

_This can't be happening!_ she thought frantically. _Where is he? Oh, God, this can't be happening! He's not supposed to die!_

But already the surface of the water was beginning to ice over again.

"Reaper!" Tank called. "Reaper! John! Answer me!"

Nothing. Tank spun to look over her shoulder.

"Go get help!" she yelled, her voice getting hoarse from the fear that clogged her throat. She didn't wait for Alexei to acknowledge her, but turned back to the hole.

"Reaper!" she shouted again. Still, there was nothing, and the seconds had lengthened into minutes. Finally Tank decided to risk it, and she hurriedly took her weapons and medical pouch off of her to slide them uncaringly back across the ice. Then she swung herself over the edge, grabbing hold of the lip of the hole before she could fully submerge.

The water was positively frigid, and Tank immediately began to shiver. However, she managed to hold on, and quickly ducked her head below the water.

The high saline concentration of the water under the ice burned her eyes and her wounds, but Tank pushed past the pain after blinking a few times, her gaze questing about for her husband.

A dark form, darker than the surrounding water, caught her eye, drifting about thirteen feet below her.

It was Reaper.

He looked to be unconscious. Tank's lungs began to burn, and she quickly surfaced for a gulp of air before she grabbed her flashlight out of her pouch. Thankfully, the flashlight was completely water-tight, so it worked when she clicked it on, slipping the band on the end of it around her wrist.

Then she submerged again.

Tank angled her light down toward Reaper. It cut through the darkness like a knife and highlighted him enough for her to see. Reaper wasn't moving, and Tank could see that his legs were tangled in something, possibly seaweed. She couldn't see or feel a current, thankfully.

Tank briefly surfaced for a deep breath before she let go of the ice and dove down, down toward her husband's motionless form. The water grew colder the deeper she went. Soon she found herself weakening from the chill, but Tank didn't stop, determined to get him out of this mess.

Reaper didn't react when Tank reached him.

Tank had been trained to swim while she was in the Navy. Even so, it was difficult for her numb, fumbling hands to draw her KA-BAR from its sheath on her belt so that she could cut him free. She did it nevertheless, and promptly sheathed it again, grabbed her husband around the chest under his armpits, and swam for the hole she had entered by.

When Tank broke the surface again, Reaper in tow, it was a full seven minutes since he had gone in.

Immediately, hands were there, grabbing her, helping pull her coughing and spluttering body onto the ice. They grabbed Reaper, too, laying both Marines out on their backs. Then Tank was dragged slowly away from the edge of the hole, until finally she felt solid ground beneath her back.

Tank immediately tried to sit up, but was pushed down again.

"Let me up!" she croaked out, shivering violently. "Lemme up! Reaper!"

"Calm down, miss!" said a rough voice. Tank looked up with blurry sight to see an Inuit man hovering over her. He was probably in his mid to late sixties.

"No!" she cried. "Reaper!"

Tank finally managed to squirm free of the man's grip, and turned over so that she could crawl to her husband's side. He was laid out on the rocks about three feet away, and the natives had gathered around him. Tank could see that he wasn't breathing.

Tank leaned over his face, her numb, shaking hands reaching down into his collar to try to find a pulse.

"Fuck," she whispered when she couldn't feel anything. "Alexei!"

Alexei was there in an instant, kneeling opposite of her on Reaper's other side.

"Feel for his pulse!" Tank ordered, and left him to do so. She, in the meanwhile, fumbled with Reaper's parka, unzipping it before she tore his vest off of him. Next to come undone was his jumpsuit, and she pressed her ear to his chest, listening intently for a heartbeat, for a breath.

Nothing.

Tank immediately snapped upright, tears pooling in her eyes, and moved her numb hands up to tilt Reaper's head back, pinching his nose shut and opening his mouth. Then she took a deep breath and lowered her mouth to his. Making sure that no air would escape between them, Tank exhaled. Then she came up, took another deep breath, and repeated the process.

She pulled back and pressed her ear to his chest again.

Still nothing.

Tank gulped back her tears. She straightened, located the xyphoid process of his sternum, placed her right hand in the proper position, and then overlaid that hand with her left, lacing her fingers together as she pulled them away from his skin. Tank locked her elbows. Then she began to rapidly push down, two inches in, release, two pushes a second until she had compressed his chest a total of thirty times.

As soon as she had reached that limit, Tank pulled away, tipped his head back up, pinched his nose, and breathed for him again, once, twice.

No response.

"Goddamnit, Reaper, don't die on me!" she choked out, beginning the compressions again.

Another two rounds of the CPR produced no reaction.

"Did somebody get the doctor?" Tank demanded as she continued the compressions.

"He's on his way," an Inuit woman said.

"Have him bring a defibrillator!" Tank ordered.

"I'm here," said a male voice from behind her. Tank glanced over her shoulder briefly to see a man approaching, bundled up in a parka and carrying a portable defibrillator.

"Get the fuck over here!" Tank choked out before dipping down for another two exhalations into Reaper's mouth. The doctor did as she told him without question, and Tank continued to perform CPR while the man prepped Reaper for defibrillation.

"Don't you _dare_ die on me, John!" Tank sobbed as she compressed Reaper's chest again. "_Don't you fucking dare!_"

Tears leaked out of her eyes as the doctor ordered them all to stand clear. Tank leapt back. The doctor pressed the paddles to the pads that he had placed on Reaper's chest, just below his right collarbone and just below his left pectoralis muscle. Reaper's body jolted and arched off of the ground as the machine discharged, and the doctor immediately pulled the paddles away.

Tank leaned forward to press her ear to his chest.

Still nothing.

"Nothing!" she sobbed.

"Clear!" called the doctor, and Tank leaned back so that he could press the paddles to the pads again. Reaper convulsed.

Still nothing.

"Clear!" the doctored ordered.

Reaper arched again.

A second passed.

Then he sucked in a breath and started coughing, choking briefly on water that came out of his lungs until Tank rolled him onto his side. She was still sobbing as he jerked and choked in her grasp.

He calmed two minutes later, his breathing still heavy as he shivered, coughing occasionally.

"Come on, get him to the clinic," the doctor said. A second later, a new pair of hands landed on Tank's shoulders. She shook them off and moved around her still-unconscious husband in order to slip her hands underneath his shoulders. Somebody else grabbed his legs as the doctor removed the pads from his chest.

Tank could barely see straight through her tear-blurred eyes as she helped to lift Reaper's limp form and carry him over the rocky, uneven shore to what the doctor designated as the clinic.

Once they arrived, Tank was forcefully ushered off to the side by a trio of women, protesting the whole way. They would have none of it, however, and drew a curtain around the four of them before they stripped Tank out of her soaked clothes.

Tank finally stopped struggling, sobbing brokenly while they wrestled her clothes off of her. Tank didn't hear their exclamations of shock and horror when her jumpsuit came off to expose the wet and bloodied bandages on her shoulders and back; she only knew that Reaper was alive, and that he was still fighting, and that she couldn't see him.

"Reaper," she choked out once the women had toweled her dry and had wrapped her in a thick woolen blanket. "Where's Reaper?"

"Doctor Carmichael is treating him right now," the same Inuit woman from before said. She had the bronze skin, black hair, dark eyes, and round face characteristic of her people, and her tone was kind. "You can see him in a little while after we've treated your wounds."

"How did you get so battered?" asked another woman, her voice inflected with a tinge of horror. She was a brunette with blue eyes and pale skin, and spoke with a Scottish accent.

"_He _didn't do it, did he?" gasped the third, a red-head with brown eyes. The Inuit woman scoffed, and shooed the other two off.

"Don't pester the poor girl," she ordered. "She's had a tough ordeal. Besides, I don't think she would've tried so hard to save that young man's life if he had abused her."

"R-Russians," Tank gasped out around her sobs. "Got captured on a mission. They wanted information."

Three sets of eyes landed on her, and widened as she finished her garbled explanation.

"Who are you?" breathed the brunettete.

"Marine," Tank choked out. "RRTS Six Special Operations with the USMC." She paused to rein in her emotions some. "I wanna see Reaper."

"Reaper is his name?" asked the red-head.

"Codename."

"Is he single?" asked the brunettete with a giggle. She exchanged a glance with the red-head.

"He's my husband," Tank murmured, taking a trembling breath as she held up her left hand. The two thin golden rings on it- her engagement ring and her wedding band- glinted in the glow of the overhead lights. An awkward silence stretched between the women until they blushed, and the Inuit woman smiled.

"Good for you," she said. "My name is Pipaluk. And you?"

"Tank," Tank mumbled, suddenly feeling tired. Pipaluk's smile widened with amusement.

"Your real name, I mean."

Tank scowled. "Not until I can see my husband!"

"Pipaluk." It was the doctor's voice. "She can see him, now, if she wants. I need to examine her, anyway."

Pipaluk nodded, and Tank got to her feet, ready to charge out from behind the curtain. However, Pipaluk stopped her.

Tank was about to argue, but Pipaluk simply smiled, reached forward, and pulled the blanket more securely around Tank's body.

"There," the Inuit woman said. Tank blushed slightly.

"Thanks," she grumbled. Then she ducked around the curtain and crossed the room to the side of the bed where Reaper had been placed. The doctor had attached a heart monitor to Reaper's chest and an oxygen mask to his face. Reaper had been stripped out of his wet gear, much like Tank had, and had been covered to the neck with a pile of blankets. His left arm laid on top of the covers, an IV drip transferring warmed liquids into his bloodstream. Several suspicious lumps surrounding his quaking body gave away the presence of heated stones or hot water bottles. Tank couldn't tell which.

"Will he be alright?" she asked, unable to properly assess her husband's condition. Her eyes were still blurry and burning from the saltwater, and exhaustion had stolen upon her like a thief in the night.

"I'll give him a good chance if he makes it through tomorrow," Doctor Carmichael told her. He was a thin, balding man with platinum-blond hair and ice-blue eyes. His accent told Tank that he was probably British or Canadian.

"He'll make it," Tank said with conviction. The doctor smiled, but it was tinged with pity.

"We'll see," he said. "Now, I must insist upon an examination, miss...?"

"Amanda Grimm," Tank replied as Pipaluk and the other women emerged from behind the curtain. "And this is John Grimm, my husband."

"Mrs. Grimm," Doctor Carmichael acknowledged. "I must insist upon examining you, especially after that plunge you took."

Tank nodded. Doctor Carmichael gestured to the curtain again, and Tank ducked around it before sitting on the bed that was situated behind it. He followed at her heels.

"So, Mrs. Grimm," he began in the conversational tone that doctors usually seemed to take when examining a patient. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-three," Tank replied automatically. "John's twenty-two."

"I see," the doctor murmured, pushing the blanket away from Tank's body. His eyes widened when he saw the bloodied bandages around her shoulders and midriff.

"How did you acquire these... wounds?" he asked, stunned.

"Got caught during a mission in Russia," Tank intoned, her voice distracted. "The Russians wanted information out of me. They cut me, and then rubbed salt into the wounds."

A horrified gasp escaped the doctor. It was echoed by a trio of disbelieving exclamations from the other side of the curtain, and Tank knew that the three women were listening in.

"We escaped two days ago," Tank continued. "We made it to Dezhnevo with the help of our companion, Alexei. Then we crossed the ice, skirted Big Diomede, and made it here before John fell through."

"What-"

"We're Marines," Tank interrupted with an impatient snap in her voice. The doctor nodded sagely, and then set to tending to Tank's wounds.

His hands were gentle, but to Tank they felt invasive, unwelcome. She wanted Reaper's touch.

Tank was too tired to react by the time that Doctor Carmichael began to clean the wounds out, his probing fingers strictly professional. She couldn't help the relief she felt when he finished treating her, however, spreading a healing salve over the wounds before he bandaged them again.

"Thanks," she grunted. Doctor Carmichael nodded.

"You're welcome," he said. "Pipaluk will bring you come clothes, if you'll wait a few minutes, and then you need to rest."

"I'm not leaving John," Tank stated firmly.

"But you must rest, Mrs. Grimm."

"I'm not leaving John." Tank's voice was a low, predatory growl, this time. "And you can't fucking _make_ me."

Doctor Carmichael sighed. "Fine, we can push the beds together. Just _rest_."

"Deal," Tank grunted. The doctor sighed again and left, muttering about difficult patients. A few seconds later, Pipaluk slowly entered the partitioned area, a pile of clothes in her hands.

"Here," she said. "There're clean undergarments in there- I hope they fit- and you've got a few layers of warm clothes."

"Thank you," Tank whispered. Pipaluk smiled.

"You're welcome," she murmured kindly. "I have only one request."

Tank blinked sleepily. "What's that?"

"I got these from my home," Pipaluk began, "and my daughter asked about you. She wants to meet you and Mr. Grimm."

Tank sighed. "Just call us Tank and Reaper," she mumbled. "Or Amanda and John, if you prefer. No 'Mrs. Grimm' or 'Mr. Grimm', okay? We're only in our twenties."

Pipaluk chuckled. "Amanda it is, then."

Tank nodded, and took the clothes. Pipaluk bade her a good night, and then left to allow Tank to dress.

The underwear fit well enough. Next to come on was a t-shirt and some shorts, followed by two pairs of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, after which came a fleece pull-over.

By the time that Tank had pulled them all on, she was sure that she would be adequately warm even if the clinic got drafty.

A sudden thought struck her, and she woke up enough to realize that their comms had gotten wet.

While that was not normally something that she would worry about, Tank's befuddled mind couldn't grasp the fact that their comms were, in fact, waterproof. So she wasted no time in locating her belt and vest with her equipment. Once she found it, she pulled her comm out of its waterlogged pocket and flipped it on, slowly sitting down on the side of the cot.

There was a brief burst of static.

It was working.

Tank sighed with relief, then keyed in the long-range frequency that would take her to Sarge's comm.

"This is Corporal Amanda Grimm with RRTS Six Special Ops, ID 413-68-7592," she said into it. "Calling Sergeant Dwayne Mahonin. Sergeant, do you copy? Over."

She fell silent, taking her finger off of the relaying button so that the message could transmit. A few minutes passed with nothing but the quiet hum and beeping of machinery to meet Tank's ears.

"Sergeant Dwayne Mahonin," Tank said, depressing the button again. "Do you read me? Over."

A few more minutes passed. Tank sighed, deciding to try again in the morning, and went to flip the comm off. However, a burst of static stayed her hand, and she stared at the comm, hoping.

"_This is Sergeant Dwayne Mahonin._" Sarge! "_I'm reading you loud and clear, Tank. It's good to hear you're still alive._"

"It's good to be alive, Sarge," Tank sighed, her voice weary. Tank could hear the rest of the squad cheering in the background.

"_Where the fuck are you, Tank?_" he asked. Tank smiled faintly.

"We're in Diomede, Alaska," she informed them. "We're in the clinic here. Where are _you?_"

"_Out looking for you,_" Sarge replied. There was a pause. "_What the fuck are you doing in Alaska?_"

"Long story, Sarge," Tank murmured. There was a second of radio silence.

"_What the fuck happened to you?_"

"Reaper fell through the ice right when we got here," Tank sighed. She briefly closed her eyes, shivering. "I jumped in after him, got him out, got help. Like I said, we're in the clinic."

Tank got up and peered around the curtain to Reaper's shivering form. He had a grimace on his face even in unconsciousness, and Tank briefly wondered exactly how extensive the damage from the water had been.

"Listen, Sarge," Tank deadpanned, ducking back behind the partition. "We've got him stable, for now, but this place isn't equipped to deal with the kind of stuff that a near-drowning can come with. Can you get a helicopter or something up here to get him out?"

"_Depends on the weather conditions,_" Sarge stated, his gruff voice serious. "_How's it looking?_"

"Clear, right now," Tank said tiredly. "There's some pretty damn strong winds up here and it's about thirteen below, but it's not a white-out blizzard, either."

"_Fuck me running backwards through the woods with a hedgehog,_" Sarge muttered. Tank couldn't help cracking a small grin. "_How the fucking hell did he survive something like that? How did _you_ survive that?_"

"Didn't you ever learn about cold-water drowning, Sarge?" Tank asked absently. She pulled back the curtain as she talked, and took hold of the foot of her cot, wheeling it over to situate it next to Reaper's right side.

His left side was occupied by the IV drip and the electrocardiogram.

"_No,_" Sarge drawled. "_Care to enlighten us?_"

"If a human's face is submerged in cold water," Tank began as she pushed the beds closer together, "a physical response causes the metabolism to slow down. Pulse decreases. Cellular respiration decelerates, and blood is diverted from the extremeties to the trunk in order to keep the vital organs warm."

"_Cut the technobabble and get to the point,_" Sarge groused. Tank sighed, and grabbed a blanket from a nearby closet before she climbed onto her cot.

"You want the idiot-proof explanation? Fine. Basically, everything slows down, and oxygen and heat are diverted to the heart, lungs, and brain to keep the person alive," Tank explained. "As the body loses more and more oxygen and gets colder and colder, the person slowly drowns. However, because the bodily functions have slowed down due to the cold, the person can survive for longer than they could were they drowning in warm water."

"_Sweet Jesus, that's a long explanation,_" Sarge muttered.

"But it _is_ idiot-proof, no?" Tank asked tiredly. "Listen, Sarge, if you can't get someone out here by air tonight, then I need you to do it ASAP, 'cause if Reaper's condition goes south, there's _nothing_ here that could help him."

"_I'll get somebody out to you,_" Sarge said, "_just sit tight. They'll be there by morning._"

"Thanks," Tank mumbled. "Now, if you don't mind, I need to sleep. Jumping into the Bering Strait in the middle of March after running almost fifteen miles didn't do anything for my healing factor."

"_You're injured?_"

"I'll give you the full story when I'm more awake, sir," Tank murmured. "Right now I can't even see straight, let alone think through everything that's happened since the last time I saw you."

"_I'll expect a detailed report once you can string two thoughts together,_" Sarge intoned dryly, but Tank knew that it was an order.

"Yes, sir," she mumbled.

"_Dismissed, and good night,_" Sarge concluded. "_Over and out._"

"Goodnight, Sarge," Tank murmured as the line cut. She sighed and switched off the comm, and then she laid back onto her cot. The pillow felt heavenly to her weary head, and she was already half-asleep by the time that she managed to cover herself with the woolen blanket.

She drifted off within the next thirty seconds.

* * *

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Doom. I only own Amanda "Tank" Grimm and her family, not including John "Reaper" Grimm. Nyah._

_Okay, I honestly have no excuse to offer for my tardiness this time. It's 5-31-10 and I promised this chapter would be posted over a month ago. I feel really bad, now. At first, I didn't post because of end-of-school-year crises that always crop up for procrastinators like myself. Then school let out (two weeks ago!) and I kept thinking, "Hey, I should post the next chapter of my Doom story!" ...but never got around to it. I feel terrible for making you all wait so long, and I am very sorry!_

_On the other hand I AM out of school, now, and even though I'm looking for a job, I **should **be able to post regularly, provided that I **remember to do so.** *goes to bang head against a wall*_

_Now, I have a few things to say._

_Thank you to every veteran or soldier out there who may or may not be reading this. It's because of you that civilians like myself are able to live free, instead of in fear of terrorism and tyranny, and are allowed to sleep in peace at night. Every freedom, every little privilege that we take for granted, is made possible by you, and we constitute a very unworthy and ungrateful nation if we forget all you've done for us. You have my deepest gratitude and appreciation for all that you have done, all that you are doing, and all that you will do in the future to defend me, my family, and the country that we all love so much. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart._

_Thank you to everyone who's been so patient with my unplanned hiatus! Hugs to you all!_

_And lastly, a huge thank you goes to **Shattered Mirror01** for reviewing the last chapter. Again, I apologize for the lateness of this one as well as its relatively short length. As to your speculations about Tank's "visions"... Tank **doesn't **__believe in reincarnation, and neither do I. What I'm putting her through is something I came up with called "genetic memory". I know that that term is used for a number of things, but this is a little different. It's a lot like the theory behind the **Assassin's Creed** games, where they hook the guy up to a machine to view his "genetic memories" that are passed down in his DNA from his ancestors, Altaïr and Ezio. That's the best I can explain it in terms that I understand... If you want more information, I recommend that you refer to **Assassin's Creed**, as I myself am a little unsure of the technicalities behind it. Sorry I can't be of more help._

_Next chapter should be posted 6-7-10._

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


	34. 2043 RRTS Barracks 1800 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_Ladies and gentlemen, please put your heads between your knees and kiss your butts goodbye!"  
-Anonymous._

__

******Chapter 33.**

* * *

_**2043 A.D. - ? - ? hours**_

_"Fucking __**SHIT!"**_

_In the next instant, the concussion grenade went off not five feet from Tank, blasting her back against the hull of the tanker hard enough that she blacked out briefly before she came around again in time to see Reaper gun down the North African man who had thrown the grenade._

_By the time that Reaper got to her to help her up, Tank couldn't hear anything, could barely see anything. She could feel blood on her face, leaking from her nose and a cut at her hairline. It was nothing the advanced medical teams back at base wouldn't be able to fix, but at the moment, her forced detachment from the outside world made her a liability, and that was something she couldn't afford. She felt more blood tickle the skin at the hinge of her jaw, and knew that her eardrums had burst from the concussion._

_A few seconds later, her world began to come back into focus, though she still couldn't hear anything. Reaper was standing over her, unloading his clip on the pirates who had opened fire on them. Tank reached out and tugged on the hem of his pants leg before shakily pulling herself back behind some cover. The movement made her head swim, and she promptly vomited across the grated floor of the ship._

_She dimly realized that she probably had a concussion, too._

_Three minutes passed._

_A heavy body hit the deck beside her. Tank turned hazily to see Reaper's swimming form moving dizzyingly as he reloaded his assault rifle. She couldn't prevent the bile that rose in her throat, and she hastily turned her head again so that she didn't throw up all over her husband. They would both be dirty enough as it was without Reaper having puke on his uniform._

_What seemed like an eternity passed while she lay there, sick and injured. But then Reaper put his hand on her shoulder, and she knew that it was all clear._

_She managed to open her eyes and look up at him. His visage swam horribly in her sight. Tank groaned and squeezed her eyes shut again, gulping back bile._

_His hand disappeared._

_For the longest time, Tank lay there, deaf and blind to the outside world, unknowing of her husband's fate. It seemed like an eternity passed, there in her cocoon of blackness where anything could hurt her but she could do nothing to prevent it._

_But nothing did._

_She figured that she must have fallen unconscious, at least for a time, because the next thing she knew, she was being carried over somebody's broad shoulder. Tank managed to open her eyes and focus long enough to see that they were boarding a small boat of some kind. Then she blacked out again._

_When she next awoke, she was in the infirmary of a U.S. Navy vessel, a corpsman in uniform standing over her, taking her blood pressure. Her vision was relatively stable, though she still felt queasy and weak and tired. The corpsman noticed she was awake, and nodded at her._

_"Good to see you're awake, Corporal Grimm," he greeted her. Tank blinked dizzily, then closed her eyes as her temples throbbed._

_She thought she managed to slur a few syllables together, but she wasn't sure until she felt a warm, rough palm cover her hand. Tank managed to open her eyes again._

_The corpsman was gone, but Reaper had taken his place at her bedside. She managed to smile at him._

_"J-"_

_It was a soft consonant, slurred and dry. Her mouth felt like somebody had stuffed it with cotton._

_Reaper shushed her, pressing a forefinger over her chapped lips. Tank silenced herself, then watched drowsily as he began to use sign language to talk to her._

Don't try to talk,_ he motioned. _You're concussed. We've had to keep you sedated.

_Tank blinked her comprehension to him. Then she lifted her hands, the limbs convulsing as she tried to form the signs she wanted._

Need a drink,_ she slowly told him. Reaper nodded, and then turned away. She could see him filling a glass from a pitcher, thoughtfully popping a straw into it after he finished._

_He turned back to her a second later, setting the glass down on the cotside table so that he could slide his arm behind her shoulders, his other hand resting on her stomach to stabilize her, and lift her into a reclining position. When he brought her up to the desired elevation, he propped her pillow up behind her and allowed her to lay back against it. Then Reaper retrieved the glass and helped her to sip from it._

_The water felt heavenly to Tank's parched throat and mouth. It seemed that he took it away too soon when he finally moved it away, but she didn't have the energy to complain._

How long was I out?_ she asked him when she next had the opportunity to. Reaper pulled a grimace._

Three days,_ he replied. Tank sighed. Really, this was becoming _way_ too routine._

Anything interesting happen?

_Reaper nodded. _I got promoted to Sergeant.

_Tank cracked a weary smile, feeling like she was about to fall asleep again._

Congratulations,_ she signed. Reaper must have noticed her drooping eyelids, because he leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. The contact was lingering and sweet, highly comforting._

Get some sleep,_ he ordered after he pulled away. _I'll fill you in on the details when you wake up again.

_Tank felt her awareness slipping again._

Ok,_ she motioned. _Love you.

_She didn't see his reply, because it was at that moment that she nodded off._

_Reaper just smiled._

Tank woke from her dream to find herself in the barracks infirmary in Twentynine Palms. Sighing as she remembered the mission she had dreamed of, she sat up and winced as her healing wounds were pulled.

The mission she had been dreaming of had taken place just over a month and a half ago. The team had been required to take back an oil tanker that had been commandeered by a group of North African pirates. The operation had gone smoothly until Tank had been caught in the blast of a concussion grenade that had gone off before she could kick it back to the person who had thrown it. She'd suffered a concussion, and both of her eardrums had ruptured. For a full week and a half, she'd been unable to walk straight for any extended period of time without getting nauseous.

A groan and a harsh cough from the cot next to hers alerted her to the fact that Reaper was currently tossing and turning in his sleep.

It had been five days since Tank and Reaper had been retrieved from the clinic on Diomede. Reaper had briefly woken up the day after they had gotten back, but it had been fleeting. The moments when he was lucid were still sparse.

To top it all off, he'd developed a nasty cough that had quickly settled in his lungs.

The sound of footsteps from the infirmary door announced the arrival of Caboose, who was there on a temporary transfer from RRTS Squad Five while Tank was healing.

The brown-haired man grinned when he saw that Tank was awake, and came over to her.

"How's my favorite sister doing?" he asked amiably. Tank gave him a deadpan look.

"My wounds are healing, my husband still can't stay lucid for more than five minutes at a time, and from the sound of it, he's getting either bronchitis or pneumonia," she stated blandly. "I'm just peachy. And I'm not your frikkin' sister, so don't call me that."

Caboose laughed. He knew that she was being sarcastic.

"Well, if you'll let me change your bandages, you can get some sleep while I give Reaper his medicine," he joked. Tank gave him another flat stare.

Caboose just rolled his eyes and moved forward with the bandages. Tank allowed him to exchange the soiled gauze for fresh stuff without a fuss.

That done, she laid back down, knowing that Caboose would take care of Reaper.

"You'd better not mess him up, Patrick Delaney Conroy," she groused. Caboose was one of the few people whose middle-name she actually knew. Tank only used it when she was either dead-serious or royally-pissed.

Caboose grinned at her.

"Sweet dreams, Amanda," he quipped.

Tank rolled her eyes before she closed them.

She was out again a second later.

* * *

_**2043 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 1800 hours**_

Tank sat on her bunk, watching as Sarah "Seraph" Jones packed her belongings into a seabag. The other woman had been transferred to the Marine Corps' Recruit Depot at Parris Island, just like Hellraiser had been the year before.

Tank had called Hellraiser ahead, this time, to warn him about the new harassment he would undoubtedly have to deal with. Hellraiser had just laughed uproariously and told Tank that he could take anything Seraph could dish out.

While Seraph was packing, Tank knew that Portman was at the airport picking up the new recruit who would be Seraph's replacement.

This recruit would be flown in to the Twentynine Palms airstrip just south of the Marine Base. In return, Seraph would be driving down to take the next flight out.

Really, Tank didn't think that she would miss Seraph.

Seraph was a very serious young woman, and she was very spit and polish. Meaning, of course, that she paid immense attention to detail and would very rarely deviate from the pre-set rules of any given combat situation, even if it meant that breaking those rules would save her life. Oftentimes, whichever partner she was with had to take matters into their own hands.

Needless to say, none of the squad liked to work with her.

The last mission had been the last straw. After all, a clusterfuck like the Siberia mission usually resulted in loss of life, mission jeopardy, and the reckless endangerment of multiple people, and was generally regarded as inexcusable. Regardless of zeal, a Marine couldn't afford to take unnecessary risks like Seraph had.

_And look at how _that_ turned out,_ Tank thought derisively.

Reaper was still recovering from the pneumonia he had contracted after his near-drowning. Tank would be forever scarred by the torture she had endured; the long stripes across her back and midriff were still healing.

Tank's thoughts briefly drifted to Alexei Kirill. The young man had joined them for the flight south to the lower forty-eight and to Pendleton in California. As far as Tank knew, he was currently in boot camp out in San Diego.

Fifteen minutes passed. Tank heard the sound of the atrium door slamming closed, and knew that Portman had returned with the newbie.

Sure enough, Sarge came down the stairs five minutes later, shortly followed by Portman and then an African-American man.

He was probably about twenty-four years old, about six foot two, and weighed the better part of one hundred and eighty pounds. He was buzz-cut, but the stubble that Tank could make out around the crown of his head was black. His eyes were a warm brown color that matched the hue of his chocolate skin.

"Men," Sarge said in his DI voice. "We've got a new recruit. This is Lance Corporal Gregory Schofield. Introduce yourselves, and play nice." He looked at Seraph. "Seraph, it's time to go."

Seraph nodded, her expression unreadable. She grabbed her seabag and skirted around the new guy to follow Sarge and Portman back up the stairs. Gregory looked around at everybody, his eyes dancing with good humor and mirth.

"Like he said," Gregory began, eyeing Tank briefly before he moved on. "I'm Greg Schofield. Peeps back home call me Duke."

Tank placed his accent as 'ghetto' and promptly dismissed him as unintelligent.

"Hey, bro." Tank was surprised to see Destroyer grin and wave at Gregory. "How ya been?"

"Gettin' along, gettin' along," Gregory replied. "Passed Calc five and decided it wasn't for me, so I dropped in ta say hi and got hooked."

Tank quickly reevaluated her opinion of the man.

One by one, the squad introduced themselves, and eventually Gregory picked up his bag and moved toward where Tank was sitting on her bunk. She saw him glance at her, and then saw his eyes flick up to the bunk above hers.

Tank stood and took a step forward, which served the dual purpose of putting her closer to his level and also barring his way.

"I'm Amanda Grimm," Tank stated. "You can call me Tank, doc, Devil Doc, or any kind of profane name, whichever you prefer at the time you say it. And sorry, but this sack's taken."

Gregory eyed Tank up and down. "You sure? 'Cause you certainly look lonely over here without anybody occupying it."

"It's taken," Tank repeated, "and so am I."

"She's not kidding, Duke," Destroyer said. "She really is taken, and so's that sack."

"Where is he, then?" the newly-re-Christened 'Duke' asked, looking around. "'Cause I don't see no boyfriend and I don't see no Marine."

"He's up in the sick bay with pneumonia," Tank deadpanned, "from falling through sea ice into the Bering Strait during our last mission. You'll meet him later."

She pointed to the bunk that Seraph had recently vacated, which was two bunks over from Tank's.

"_That's_ your rack," Tank stated firmly.

Duke sighed dramatically, and went to deposit his stuff on the cot. "Shot _down,_ and with no more remorse than a woman scorned_..._"

"Quit your bitchin' and suck it up," Tank drawled. "You're fresh meat 'round here."

She crossed to the supply closet near her bunk and withdrew an old-fashioned broom from it. It flew across the room a second later to be caught by Duke. Tank grinned evilly at him.

"So sweep up, you fuckin' pussy."

* * *

_**2044 A.D. - Alon, Israel - 2137 hours**_

A quiet groan filled the hot air, and a second later, a pair of hazy hazel eyes cracked themselves open to gaze feverishly up at the space above their owner. John "Reaper" Grimm didn't take long in realizing that he was inside a house, or that he was naked to the waist. The rest of him was covered by a gauzy sheet. His left shoulder was bound in stark white strips of linen, only slightly splotched with crimson where the bullet had gone through. There was more gauze around his midriff where he had taken a hit to his flak vest that broke his ribs; still more bandages could be felt wrapped around his right thigh and both his calves where he had taken more bullets. He hissed as the pain made itself known; it was what had woken him.

A voice met his ears from just outside the room, and then a man entered. He was probably no older than forty, judging by his stature and features. He looked surprised when he saw that Reaper was awake, and Reaper eyed him warily.

Then the man smiled and said something that Reaper didn't understand. Reaper blinked at him.

"What?" he rasped, and then coughed when his dry throat protested. The other blinked, and then he nodded. He left the room as Reaper watched, returning shortly with a bowl in one hand.

"I said greetings, stranger." The words startled Reaper more than he cared to admit, and the resulting flare of pain from his shoulder made him choke back a groan.

"What happened?" Reaper questioned with a wince. He hated how weak his voice sounded. The man came over and sat down on a chair next to the cot, and offered the bowl to Reaper. Reaper took it with a shaking hand, only to slosh a bit of water on himself before the man steadied his grip again. Then the man set the bowl of water aside and helped Reaper to sit up before allowing him to take a few sips of the water. It felt heavenly to Reaper's parched throat.

"We found you in the desert," the man replied as though they hadn't stopped speaking. His Arabic accent was thick. "You were bleeding badly and quite dehydrated. We brought you to our home, and the town doctor treated you."

Reaper nodded, feeling slightly sick from the pain of his wounds. "What's your name?"

"Yochanan Hassan," the man replied. "I believe that, in English, it is the same as the name 'John'. And you?"

Reaper blinked, and then let out a dry chuckle. "John Grimm," he replied, and then paused. "Were there any other people out there?"

Yochanan shook his head. "Only the bodies left for the scavengers to feed on."

Reaper felt the blood drain from his face.

"Were there any of them that were wearing clothes similar to mine?" he inquired. Again, Yochanan shook his head.

"No," he replied. "There was much blood there, but the only bodies there were the rebels who have been plaguing this area recently. There were no soldiers like yourself."

Reaper sagged back against the firm pillow with a faint breath of relief, wincing again as his wounds were jostled. Then a thought hit him, and he looked over at Yochanan questioningly.

"Did you find my comm unit in my vest?" Reaper asked. Yochanan nodded, but he seemed to be the bearer of bad news.

"It was insalvagable," he replied. "Likely from whatever hit broke your ribs."

Reaper groaned faintly, closing his eyes. "How long will it be until I can get to a phone? I have to let my superiors know that I haven't deserted and that I'm not dead."

"You just barely missed the monthly trip to Jericho," Yochanan answered, and his brow was dark with thought. "Normally I would be willing to take you there, but with your injuries such as they are, I don't think it would be safe to move you. You will probably have to wait until the next trip to make the call."

Reaper's breath hissed out between his teeth with his distress. None of the rest of RRTS knew that he was still alive, or they would be searching for him. He was wounded and injured, stuck in a village in the middle of the desert that only had one doctor, and it would be a month before anybody would even think about getting him to Jericho so that he could contact his squad and have them come pick him up. In the meanwhile, any number of things could go wrong, his wounds becoming infected being the most likely.

He just _knew_ that it was going to be a tough month.

* * *

_**2044 A.D. - St. Paul's Lutheran Church, Des Peres, Missouri - 0845 hours**_

"...A husband should love his wife as Christ loves the Church," the preacher was saying at the pulpit. "To support her, to love her, to sacrifice for her, even be willing to die for her..."

That was when Amanda "Tank" Grimm got up from her seat in the pew next to her brother and made a quick exit down the side aisle of the church. Her heart felt like it was being ripped in half, and there was a lump in her throat the size of Alaska. Tears and pain blurred her vision as she stumbled out of the sanctuary and into the narthex, heading for the women's bathroom at the back of the church. She was vaguely aware of several of the ushers, including her father, giving her concerned looks, but she ignored them, simply focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Her head hurt. Her stomach hurt. Her throat hurt. Her heart...

Her heart was a mass of blinding agony.

As soon as she made it to the lounge area just inside of the restroom but before she got to the toilet room, Tank collapsed onto the small couch set there for the purposes of nursing mothers, and buried her face in her hands. A brief flash of pain shot through her skull when her fingers brushed the gauze bandages that were wrapped around her head, but the flare was nothing compared to the agony inside.

The door opened quietly a moment later to admit her mother. Marie was silent as she perched on the edge of the sofa next to her daughter, but rested a hand on Tank's back in comforting support. A long second passed. Tank trembled.

_I want John,_ she thought. She finally choked, the sudden, unexpected sob only slightly muffled by her hands and her tears. Her breath hitched in a second sob that she couldn't contain, and then another, and another.

_I want John!_ her mind wailed. Tank gasped for breath, pressing the heels of her clenched fists to her eyes. Marie shushed Tank soothingly, wrapping her arms around her daughter and guiding her to lean her aching head on her shoulder. Tank broke down and simply cried for the first time in years.

Tank calmed soon enough, but it was still a good fifteen minutes since she had started. They could hear the buzzing chatter of departing congregation members through the door, signifying the end of the church service, and both knew that people would soon be coming in to freshen up. Tank took a deep, shaky breath and lurched to her feet.

She nodded her gratitude to her mother, and Marie smiled sadly.

"I think that we need to talk when we get home," she observed. "And I think you need a nice, big cup of hot chocolate."

Tank gave her mom a shaky, watery half-grin. Then she winced as her head throbbed, and gingerly pressed a hand to her pounding temple.

"Well, then, come on," Marie said. She plucked a tissue from the couchside box and dabbed carefully at Tank's eyes and cheeks. Within a moment, nearly all traces of the tears were gone. They left the room and returned to the narthex. If Marie noticed how badly Tank was trembling, she said nothing, and for that, at least, Tank was grateful. She didn't say a word as she met up with the rest of the family, and remained taciturn as they loaded up into the car. Her presence was a solemn, dark cloud the whole quiet ride home, and she still didn't speak when they arrived back at her parents' house. Marie guided her inside and sent her to get changed while she made Tank a mug of hot cocoa. Tank wordlessly did as she was ordered to, moving mechanically.

Heating up some water, Marie mentally reviewed what had happened in the past twelve hours. They had gotten a phone call at nine o'clock the previous night from Tank's commanding officer. He hadn't had time to explain what had occurred, but told Marie that Tank had been sent home roughly two and a half hours before, and that her flight to Missouri would be landing at the airport in an hour, and that she would need somebody to pick her up.

Keith hadn't asked questions, and he and Marie had gotten in the car and driven the forty-five minutes to Lambert-St. Louis International Airport on the north side of the city. When Tank had met them roughly thirty minutes later, the two of them had been astonished at the change that had come over their "little girl".

Tank's eyes had been distant, and the bandaging around her forehead had been alarming, to say the least, as had the way that she was walking stiffly, favoring her right leg. She hadn't said a word to them, just hugged them exhaustedly before allowing them to lead her to the car. All of her motions had been automatic, engrained, almost robotic in appearance, and she hadn't reacted to any of their questions or comments.

She'd been all but catatonic.

This morning hadn't been much better, and she had remained silent all through the church service. The rest of the family had been planning on going to Bible study after the early service, but Tank's state had led Marie to suggest that they all needed to go home.

Which led Marie back to her current predicament. How was she going to get her daughter to speak with her about whatever had happened if the younger woman wouldn't even look anybody in the eye for more than five seconds?

Marie was distracted by the sound of footsteps entering the kitchen from behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to see her eldest child standing there, looking more lost than Marie had ever seen her. The kettle whistled, and Marie gestured to the kitchen table as she took the water off the heat.

"Have a seat, baby," she said softly. Tank did as she was told, first crossing the room and grabbing the bottle of ibuprofen from the cabinet above the stove. As Marie poured the water into a mug, she watched out of the corner of her eye while Tank downed three of the two-hundred milligram tablets and then took a seat.

A second later, Marie plunked the mug down in front of her and sat down across from her daughter.

"So?" she questioned, taking a sip of her own hot cocoa. "Would you care to share why you're so quiet and listless all of a sudden?"

Tank didn't look at her for a long time. Even when she finally moved to meet Marie's eyes, the look was so bleak that it took Marie's breath away. Tank opened her mouth once, hesitated, and then closed it again. Then she shook her head and stared down at her steaming mug of hot chocolate. After a long moment, she briefly closed her eyes before lethargically hoisting herself to her feet and leaving the kitchen through the dining room, opposite the way she came in. Her drink had remained untouched.

Marie could only sit there, stunned by what she had seen.

Her trance was broken a moment later when the phone suddenly rang, causing her to jump before she realized what it was. Then she scrambled to find a receiver before picking up and putting it to her ear.

"Hello, this is the Halley residence," she said.

"_Is this Marie?_" It was a man's voice, and a familiar one at that.

"Sergeant Mahonin?"

"_Yeah. How's Amanda doing?_" His inflections radiated concern. Marie glanced in the direction of the bedrooms when she heard a door close.

"Not good," she responded. "She's practically catatonic, and she broke down in the middle of church this morning." She paused, and then bit the bullet and asked. "Sergeant, why is my daughter like this? What happened?"

She heard the Sergeant sigh heavily, and pictured him running his hand over his face wearily.

"_John's MIA, presumed dead,_" he said at last. Marie gasped.

"What happened?" she repeated, distressed.

"_We got a mission in Israel,_" Dwayne intoned. "_Amanda took a hit to her head. Gave her a mild concussion and dazed her. She tripped, and John drew their fire away from her so that we could get her out of there._"

He paused, and Marie felt her heart begin to pound. Dread crept up her throat.

"_He took a hit meant for her,_" he continued. "_He probably broke some ribs from it, but it didn't go through his vest. We were outgunned and outnumbered, and the sun was killing us almost as bad as the enemy was. He covered us while we evacuated to the evac point. We all got there okay, and John was retreating toward us when he got hit._"

Marie gasped.

"Was he okay?" she breathed, concerned.

Sarge gave a negative grunt. "_No. He went down, and it looked like he'd gotten hit high in the left shoulder. Maybe near one of his major arteries. He also took hits to both his legs. Goat tried to go get him, but we all got pretty beat up, and the chopper was already lifting off. Amanda almost jumped out to go back anyway. It took both me and Pug to restrain her._"

He paused again. "_Has she said anything since she got there?_"

Marie shook her head before remembering that he couldn't see her. "No, not a word."

"_Damn,_" Sarge swore softly. "_I was hoping that wasn't the case._" He sighed again. "_The truth is, Mrs. Halley, that we've already been back Stateside for almost three days. Tank just threw herself into training before she was even fully healed, and I couldn't get her to rest at all. Finally I sent her back home in the hope that she'd relax, maybe talk to you._"

Marie was silent for a long moment, feeling heartsick for her daughter and for the missing man she loved like a son. Her voice was shaky when next she spoke. "So John's presumed dead, then?"

"_Yeah._"

Marie heard a gasp from behind her, but ignored it.

"Alright," she said. "I'll give her two days before I call in reinforcements. We'll see if we can get her to talk before then."

"_It's probably a case of PTSD,_" Sarge said. "_She might not be _able_ to talk for a while. Still, we've sent out a search-and-rescue team to look for him. If they turn anything up, they'll notify us immediately, and then I'll call you guys._"

"Right," Marie said. "Thank you for updating us on the situation, Sergeant Mahonin."

"_Sorry I couldn't do it last night,_" he returned. "_It was short notice, and I was sure that it would be late by the time you guys got back. I didn't want to keep Tank- Amanda, sorry- up when she needed the sleep._"

Marie sighed. "I don't think she slept at all, Dwayne. But I'll keep you updated as much as possible on her status. Thanks again."

"_I'll be in touch._"

"Right. Bye."

"_Goodbye, Mrs. Halley._"

And with that, Marie hung up, staring at the phone in her hand for a long moment before she moved to put it back in its cradle. It was then that she gestured to Keith, David, and Mary to sit down at the kitchen table. Mary and David had only just walked out of their rooms after changing, and had had a snack in mind. They were oblivious to the conversation that had just taken place on the phone. Keith just looked solemnly at his wife as he sat down, taking her hand in his own.

"Mary, David," Marie began, her voice sounding calmer than she felt. "That was Amanda's commanding officer, Sergeant Mahonin. He was calling to give me the reason why Amanda has been so withdrawn lately, and I think it's something you two need to hear."

She explained about what had happened, reiterating what Sarge had told her until the entire tale was told. Then she fell silent while her nineteen-year-old daughter and twenty-and-a-half-year-old son absorbed the information.

It was going to be a long road to Amanda's recovery, but Marie knew that they would all support their loved one, even if said woman didn't want or notice their help.

After all, that was what family was for.

* * *

_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own Doom. Nyah._

_So I actually got this out a few minutes after midnight, this time. I'm afraid I got caught up finishing a new chapter to this, so that's why it's a little late… At least it's not as late as last time, right? XD_

_I like Duke's introduction, here. I wanted to show how first impressions aren't always everything, and how people are constantly reevaluating their opinions of each other. And though Tank tries not to be TOO judgmental (cough cough) she is only human. Sadly, old prejudices die hard, and racism and racial stereotyping have existed throughout humanity's history. It only makes sense that racism would still be left over even in a time of technology and communication. Hence, her initial assumptions about Duke._

_Hope that anyone who might be offended by such things can get past it. Racism still exists, even on the smallest levels, and if some people are ignorant of such things, then those people are some very sad or naïve individuals who need to get in touch with the world around them. I should know. I've made and heard enough racist comments and thought enough racist thoughts to know that it's still alive and kicking, sad though that is. I just don't think that it would die out that easily, and Tank is a very flawed woman. Her faults are many, and she was raised in a middle-class white family whose members have seen the havoc that people of other colored skin can unleash upon those whom they feel have slighted them. It is people like that that give minorities a bad reputation, and Tank knows good and well that many minority members are not your stereotypical minority people (She lives and works with Destroyer, for Pete's sake!), but even she occasionally dismisses others based upon racial stereotypes that she has been taught throughout her life. For instance, the "Ghetto" comment._

_Okay. Rant over. *Sigh*_

_So Reaper's missing and Tank thinks he's dead and is mourning. Wow. Sometimes I surprise even myself. O.o I hope I portrayed Marie alright. She's worried about her daughter, and I hope I managed to convey those emotions well._

_Thanks very much to those of you who reviewed the last chapter! __**Shattered Mirror01**__ and __**angel19872006**__, you guys rock! Semper fi!_

_Next chapter should be posted 6-14-2010._

_-__**P**__ortrait of a __**S**__cribe_


	35. 2044 AD St Louis Missouri 1400 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_Between us there's been/ So many memories,/ So much history,/ So few enmities./ A hundred good times,/ A hundred bad,/ A hundred happy times,/ A hundred sad./ A hundred truths,/ A hundred lies,/ A hundred ways/ To say goodbye."  
-Me, "A Hundred Ways to Say Goodbye"_

__

**Chapter 34.**

* * *

_**2044 A.D. - Halley Household, St. Louis, Missouri - 1400 hours**_

"Amanda?" The question was voiced quietly, tentatively, and was shortly followed by the opening of her bedroom door. Tank ignored the speaker in favor of staring out the window of her childhood bedroom.

Tori and Amanda exchanged glances as they entered the space, each concerned about their friend. Tori's hand was clasped around that of her two-and-a-half-year-old son, Joseph, who was looking around the room in wide-eyed wonder. The tiny boy had just started talking, though he was still not the best at it.

"Joseph," Tori said. Joseph looked up at her with innocent blue eyes. "Why don't you go say hi to aunt Amanda?"

Joseph giggled, and then toddled over to Tank. He put his hands on the knee that was closest to him.

"Hi!" he chirped. Slowly, Tank's gaze focused in, and she looked down at the little boy. A small, hollow smile stretched her lips, though it didn't reach her eyes. She reached down with one slender hand to smooth the toddler's wild sandy-blond locks.

It was then that she looked up, finally noticing Tori and Amanda standing there.

"Amanda," Tori said, coming over and sitting down on the edge of the bottom bunk next to her cousin. "Are you okay?"

Tank didn't verbally answer, but shook her head.

Amanda took a seat on Tank's other side, wedging herself between her best friend and the window. Tank obligingly moved over. Tori moved over a little more to make room.

"Your mom said that you haven't left your room much for the past two days," Amanda said. Her gaze was searching and worried. "Why not?"

Tank turned her stare out the window, again. The other two women watched her for a long second before Amanda sighed, reached into her pocket, and pulled out a small notebook and a pencil. Taking Tank's hand in her own, Amanda slapped the notebook into the brunette's open palm and pointedly held out the pencil to her.

Tank gave her a questioning look.

"Either you start talking, or you start writing," Amanda stated. "But we're not leaving until you tell us _something_."

Tank stared at her best friend for a long second before taking the notepad in hand. Her right hand trembled faintly as she took up the pencil. Then she slowly began writing, considering every word before she put it down.

_Have you ever felt like you've had your heart ripped straight out of your chest and then fed to a pack of dogs while you're still alive and watching?_

Tori blinked. "That's a little morbid."

Tank frowned. _Then go away,_ she wrote. _I'm in a morbid mood._

"And that's a little mean."

The speed of the writing picked up. _Listen, I don't want to be lectured! I've gotten that enough in past days from my mother and father, I don't need it from my cousin!_

"Then what _do_ you need?" Tori countered. Tank froze. Seeing an opening, Tori prodded, "Amanda, we can't help you if you don't talk to us. We all love you, and we hate seeing you like this. Please, tell us what we can do to help you!"

Tank didn't move for a very long time. Her face was completely closed off from expression.

_You can't help me._

Then she set the pad of paper and the pencil down and went back to staring dully out the window. Despite the other women's efforts, they couldn't get her to write to them again. They finally left her alone a good two hours after they had first arrived. Joseph gave Tank a big hug on his way out, to which she responded with a gentle pat on the shoulders and a kiss on the forehead. Then they left, and Tank was alone again. She knew that her friend and cousin would ask Marie for information, as it seemed that they didn't know what had happened. Tank found that she didn't particularly care. As she slipped into a state of numbness, she allowed herself to drift back, just briefly, into her memories.

She would work through her grief on her own.

* * *

_**2044 A.D. - Alon, Israel - 1813 hours**_

Reaper bit back a relieved groan as he pushed himself into a sitting position. It had already been almost three weeks since he had been wounded. His shoulder was nearly healed, and the wounds in his legs had finished mending sometime last week. His ribs were getting there, but they were definitely taking the longest.

His head fogged briefly as he reached a vertical position, a product of sleeping for the past eight hours. As if on cue, Yochanan knocked, and then entered the room.

"Good morning, my friend," he greeted. Reaper nodded at him.

"Morning," he responded. Yochanan smiled.

"How are you feeling?" he queried. Reaper took a deep, tentative breath, and then let it out slowly.

"Well enough to move," he admitted. "My ribs are still sore, but that's to be expected."

Yochanan hummed in affirmation as Reaper got to his feet and pulled on the white shirt and pants that he had been given. When Reaper turned back to the other man, Yochanan's expression was slightly closed. Reaper immediately felt the back of his neck prickle.

"What's going on?" he asked. Yochanan blinked, and then smiled.

"A group of men arrived from Jericho last night," he responded. Reaper blinked. "They are wearing clothes like yours."

Reaper looked down at his current outfit, and then looked back up at Yochanan with a raised eyebrow.

"Your military uniform."

Reaper blinked, and felt a spark of hope ignite in his chest. "Where are they?"

"Their leader is waiting just outside."

"Thanks," Reaper said, and walked stiffly over to the window, his steps slow. He peered out from a slight gap in the cloth hung over the hole, seeing the unmistakable black uniforms of RRTS soldiers on a group of people in the street.

"Yeah, that's them," he stated. Then he took a steadying breath and looked wryly at Yochanan. "Looks like it's time for me to get my ass moving."

Yochanan blinked. "Ass?"

Reaper chuckled slightly, and then winced when his ribs throbbed. "It's a figure of speech. You probably don't want to repeat it in mixed company."

"I see." Yochanan nodded, and walked to the partition that separated the room from the rest of the house. He returned a second later with a small cloth bag in hand. "My wife packed this for you. It has your uniform in it, as well as some of the medicines that the doctor has been having us put on your wounds. The one in the green jar is to put on your ribs, and will ease your pain as well as encourage the healing process. The one in the brown jar is for when your shoulder aches."

Reaper looked down at the bag, and then slowly took it from the other man, touched by the family's kindness. "Thank you."

Yochanan smiled. "It was not all us, my friend. I truly believe it was the will of God that you came to be in our care."

Reaper chuckled. "That sounds like something my wife would say." He paused. "But thank you nonetheless. For everything."

The other man's grin widened. "We will continue to pray for you, John Grimm. We shall include your wife in our prayers. May you both live long and have many children."

This time, Reaper's laugh was a little fuller. "We'll try, I'm sure. Amanda likes kids."

"Live long and prosper, my friend."

That gave Reaper pause. He studied Yochanan for a long moment. Then a smile crossed his lips, and he held out his hand.

"In that case, I'm glad to be able to call you my friend, Yochanan," Reaper said. Yochanan grinned and shook Reaper's hand. "Take care."

"And you, as well." Yochanan held out Reaper's tattered flak vest to him. Reaper took it. It was heavy with the supplies that he'd had on him when he had been injured. He nodded his gratitude to Yochanan.

And with that, Reaper headed out of the house, moving stiffly, to meet the leader of the RRTS squad outside the front door of the house.

The woman in question was about five foot four, with auburn hair and ice-blue eyes. Reaper thought he vaguely recognized her face from his brief stay at Pendleton over a decade ago. She saluted him when he exited the house, and he returned it with some stiffness.

"Sergeant John Grimm?" she questioned.

"That's me, ma'am," Reaper replied.

"Sergeant Sheila Church," she introduced herself. "We've been searching for you for a month."

Reaper sighed in some relief. "I'm glad you have been," he admitted. "My comm got busted in the firefight, and there aren't any phones in the town."

"Why didn't you get to Jericho to contact us?" Sergeant Church asked. Reaper pulled a faint grimace as the memory of his long recovery tugged at his thoughts.

"Truthfully, ma'am, yesterday was the first day I've been allowed out of the house since I was brought here," he returned. He gestured to his torso. "There's one doctor in the town and no decent way to get medical supplies or advanced medical aid. We didn't want to risk any further injuries."

The sergeant studied him for a long moment, and then nodded.

"You can tell me more about it in the chopper on the way home," she stated. "We'll expect a full report once we're back Stateside."

"Yes, ma'am," Reaper said. If she noticed the wry tone in his voice, the sergeant didn't comment on it. Instead, she turned and headed for a Humvee that was parked out in the middle of the street. Reaper followed her to the vehicle and climbed in as directed, tugging in his flak vest after him. The rest of the team clambered in after him. They were all giving him looks that ranged from curiosity to animosity to friendliness.

The sergeant was sitting in the front passenger's seat, and she turned around to look at Reaper as another soldier took the wheel. In only a matter of seconds, he had started the Humvee and was pulling out of the town.

"Sergeant Grimm," she began, and then handed him a comm unit that she pulled out of her vest. "You need to call Sergeant Mahonin as soon as you get your stuff settled, there." She paused, and her expression darkened slightly. "Things aren't too good back home, from what he's told me."

Reaper blinked, taking the comm. "Are you and Sarge related?"

Sergeant Church smiled, and her icy gaze warmed slightly. "My moniker is Tex. You might have heard of me from Amanda."

Reaper blinked again. "Wait, _the_ Tex?" he questioned. "Sorry, ma'am, but you don't seem at all like she and Sarge described you as."

Tex raised an eyebrow. "That so?" She gave him a look that resembled a wet cat. "What've they been saying about me?"

Reaper eyed her warily. "I'm not sure I should say, ma'am."

Tex rolled her eyes. "Let me guess," she deadpanned. "They've been saying that I'm an icy bitch and the barracks queen of Pendleton, right?"

Reaper coughed pointedly to clear his throat. "Again, ma'am, I'm not sure I should say."

Tex sighed in good-natured annoyance. "You _must_ be Amanda's husband. She said that you were always polite to people you don't know."

Reaper cracked a smile, and then held up the comm. "That's me, ma'am. If you'll excuse me?"

"Sure, sure," she said, waving a hand at him as she turned back around. "Have fun."

Reaper noted the wry tone that ruled her voice. "I take it that Sarge has been disagreeable."

"To say the least."

Reaper's grin didn't fade until he had punched in the code and put the earpiece into his ear. It took a few seconds and about three rings before the other end of the line picked up.

"_Sergeant Mahonin, here. What news?_" Sarge's voice was more gruff than usual, and Reaper snickered mentally at the expression that was probably written across his commanding officer's face.

"Sarge?" he questioned.

"_Reaper!_" The volume that Sarge's voice rocketed to was so great that Reaper had to pull the earpiece out of his ear and hold it a good three inches away, wincing. He was sure that everybody in the Humvee could hear the tirade that Sarge had just launched into. Reaper wanted to laugh from the sheer relief of hearing his NCO's voice again, but he refrained.

When Sarge finally wound down about five minutes later, Reaper tentatively put the receiver back to his ear.

"Sarge?" he repeated.

"_Reaper,_" Sarge returned. "_Where the fuck have you been for the past month?_"

Reaper resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Recovering, sir," he said, and then briefly outlined what had happened. After Reaper fell silent again, he waited for Sarge to speak up.

"_Just get your ass back here on the double,_" Sarge said at last. "_We have things that need to be discussed, and you have a report to file._"

Reaper blinked. "Yes, sir."

"_Over and out,_" Sarge said. Then the line went dead.

Reaper pulled the earpiece out of his ear again and stared at it for a long moment. The way Sarge had sounded... Had the squad become completely helpless during the time he had been gone?

He supposed that he would find out soon enough.

* * *

_**2044 A.D. - Halley Household, St. Louis, Missouri - 1549 hours**_

It was going on four o'clock in the afternoon when the phone rang.

Marie immediately went to pick it up, faintly hearing the front door open and close as she did so. She noted the sound, realizing that Tank was back from her two-hour run in the park.

"Hello?" she asked after she picked up the phone. She hadn't looked at the caller ID to see who it was, so she was vaguely surprised when Sarge's voice met her ear.

"_Marie?_"

"Sergeant Mahonin?" Marie inwardly prayed for some hope; Tank hadn't been doing very well at all. "Please tell me you have good news."

"_I do,_" he replied. Marie's heart leapt into her throat. "_Could you meet John at the airport in an hour?_"

Marie took a moment to process that, and then she gasped and covered her mouth as tears of joy sprang to her eyes.

"You found him?" she questioned.

"_Yes, ma'am,_" he answered. "_Sergeant Church's team found him about fourteen hours ago in a town called Alon in Israel. Apparently, some of the townspeople found him and took him in, but his comm was busted and there weren't any working phones in the town. He's been healing for the past three weeks._"

"I'll head up there right away," Marie promised. There was a brief silence.

"_How's Tank?_" Sarge finally inquired, his same old brotherly worry plain in his voice. "_Still not any better?_"

Marie glanced at the wall as though she could see through it to the hall that her eldest daughter had likely disappeared into.

"Not much," she confessed. "She went for a run yesterday and today, but that was about it. She's still not eating much, and she hasn't spoken a word since the last time you called."

"_Damn,_" he hissed. "_Well, I told Reaper to double-time it to your place. He's flying in soon. He doesn't have anything other than a carry-on, so you won't have to worry about going through the baggage claim._"

"Guess I'd better get going, then," Marie said.

"_You do that, Marie. If I know Tank, then the only thing that'll pull her out of this depression in a safe and timely manner is Reaper._"

Marie sighed. "Right. I'll call you when we get back, Sergeant."

"_Talk to you then. Over and out._"

Marie hung up the phone, put it in its charging cradle, and grabbed her keys off the key rack on the wall. Then she grabbed her purse and all but ran down the stairs to the basement. She quickly ducked into her husband's office, finding him sitting at his computer typing away at some code.

"Keith, I'm heading to the airport," she announced breathlessly. His head whipped around so fast that she thought he would have whiplash.

"What?" He blinked at her, his eyes looking owlish behind his glasses. "What for?"

Marie grinned. "They found him. He's flying in within the hour."

Keith's eyes widened almost comically, and then he grinned with some relief. "Good. Maybe now Amanda'll get out of her funk."

"Right, but if I don't go now, I'm gonna be late," Marie stated. "Hold down the fort, please?"

Keith rolled his eyes and heaved a dramatic sigh. "If I have to."

"Thanks, hon," she said. She blew him a kiss and then headed out.

The forty-five minute drive to the airport was made worse by the traffic, which was backed up from an accident on the northbound side all the way from Page to Lindbergh. It lengthened the drive by a good ten minutes or so. When Marie finally made it to the correct terminal, she could see Reaper standing out front, easily recognizable from his height and the wild cut of his hair. He was carrying nothing more than a backpack, wearing a pair of black fatigues, a blue, button-down t-shirt that hung open in the front, and a white shirt underneath that. He was still wearing his familiar combat boots. He headed over to the car, and Marie could see that he was walking stiffly. She unlocked the doors as he neared the passenger side. Reaper climbed in with a strained smile.

"Marie," he greeted, pulling the door shut behind him. "How've you been?"

Marie pulled out of the pick-up lane and into the traffic heading out of the airport. "I've been pretty good, but I've definitely been better. You?"

Reaper chuckled quietly. "My ribs are still on the mend, but the bullet wounds are almost healed." He paused. "I think I'll be better after I see Amanda."

He fell silent for a brief, contemplative spell. "Sarge told me that she hasn't been doing well, but he wouldn't tell me anything more." Reaper turned pleading eyes on Marie. "How is she?"

Marie sighed, turning from Lindbergh onto Page again. "She's doing better than she was at first. Yesterday and today she actually went out and ran some."

Reaper felt guilt stir his heart. "And before that?"

Marie didn't speak for a long, long moment.

"She's been very depressed since you went missing," she said at long last. "She hasn't been eating regularly, she broke down in the middle of the sermon the first day she was here, and she hasn't said a word in a month. She cries herself to sleep at night."

Reaper's hands clenched in the fabric of the knees of his dark pants.

"Damnit," he muttered. "Sarge said she wasn't doing well, but..."

They fell silent for a long time, Marie driving and Reaper lost in thought as he stared out the window. When at last they pulled onto Weidman road, Marie glanced over at him briefly.

"John?" she questioned softly. He hummed and looked over at her. "You two stay at home as long as you need to recover, okay? You and Amanda both."

Reaper smiled gratefully at his mother-in-law. "Thanks, Marie."

She chuckled as they pulled into the driveway. "How many times do I have to tell you? You _can_ call me 'mom', you know."

Reaper nodded. "I'll keep it in mind."

He got out of the car, grabbing his bag, and he and Marie entered the house. Marie went into Keith's office, but Reaper barely stopped except to wave a greeting to his father-in-law before he headed upstairs in search of his wife. Tank was nowhere to be seen in the immediate vicinity, and Reaper couldn't hear anybody in the kitchen. Frowning, he headed back toward the bedrooms.

The sound of running water met his ears, coming from the hall bathroom to his right. He knocked on the door; David's voice rang out, asking who it was. Reaper didn't reply, heading to the closed door at the end of the hall to his left. Setting his bag down next to the door, he reached out and slowly turned the knob. The partition eased open, and he peered into the brightly-lit interior.

Tank was sitting on the window end of the bottom bunk, which was folded up into a couch. Her hair was shining damply in the afternoon sunlight, but she looked ill. Her eyes had dark circles under them, attesting to the fact that she hadn't been sleeping right; her skin was paler than it had been the last time Reaper had seen her. She was thinner than he remembered, probably because, like Marie had said, she hadn't been eating right. She didn't even look up when the door opened, studying something near her knees with an intensity that he had rarely seen before. Reaper followed her line of sight.

Her hunting knife was in her hands, the blade gleaming in the bright sunlight and the edge stained with her blood.

Reaper's heart leapt into his throat.

He wasted no time in entering the room and firmly grabbing her wrists, pulling her hands apart from each other in such a manner that she didn't harm herself any more. She jerked in surprise and rage, and her brown gaze snapped up to him, flashing, angry, despairing, more hopeless than he had ever seen it in all his years of knowing her.

Then her gaze settled on him and recognition dawned. Reaper watched as her fury melted away to be replaced by stunned disbelief. The knife slipped out of her fingers nervelessly, landing with a dull thud on the floor beside Reaper's booted foot. He stared into her eyes solemnly for a long moment before he looked down at her hands.

Her left thumb had been sliced open, but other than that, there were no wounds to be found.

Reaper breathed a silent sigh of relief so profound that he almost sagged. He was shocked when he suddenly found himself engulfed in an embrace. Tank was hugging him so tightly that it was difficult to breathe. Reaper relaxed after a second and put his arms around her waist, uncaring that she was getting blood on his shirt, uncaring that his ribs were aching like hell, uncaring that they should really bandage Tank's hand up and pick up that knife before she stepped on it. He was only aware of how good it felt to have her back in his arms again, even if she was crying into his shoulder hard enough that her whole body lurched with the force of her sobs.

She was real, she was solid, she was _alive_, and she was his. That was all that mattered at that moment.

* * *

_**2044 A.D. - Halley Household, St. Louis, Missouri - 1932 hours**_

Tank almost couldn't believe it. Reaper was alive. He was _real_, not just one of the hallucinations she had been seeing for the past two weeks.

_John's alive,_ she repeated to herself in her mind for the hundredth time in the past two hours. _John's alive. He's alive! He's not going to disappear!_

But she still couldn't bring herself to loosen her death grip on his shirt. He had managed to get David to get some bandages and peroxide almost an hour ago, and Reaper had pried her left hand from the blue fabric of his outer shirt so that he could clean and wrap the cut on her thumb. But otherwise, she hadn't let him go at all.

Currently, they were curled up on the bottom bunk, which was still folded up into couch form. Reaper had a pillow between him and the bars of the ladder, which he was leaning against. Tank was tucked into his side, her legs gathered beneath her. Her thin body was still trembling faintly, but she had calmed a great deal since he had interrupted her two hours ago.

She was still in shock, to tell the truth.

_John's alive,_ she whispered in her mind again. As though he sensed her thoughts, Reaper ran his hand along her side in a comforting motion. She felt him crane his neck to peer into her face, and hesitantly looked up at him. He looked concerned.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly. Tank swallowed, trying to wet her suddenly dry throat. She opened her mouth to speak. No sound came out except for a faint, whistling squeak. Frustrated, she let go of him with her right hand, reaching down for the pad of paper and pencil that had taken up residence on the floor next to the bottom bunk. Single-handedly flipping the notepad open, Tank realized exactly how many pages she had filled since her best friend had given it to her.

Only one and a half pages of the four-by-six notepad had even been written on at all.

Guilt flooded her as she read the sentences. She had been so absorbed in worrying and mourning for her husband, hating the uncertainty of his fate and her own helplessness, that she had totally neglected her family and friends. She would make sure to make it up to them as soon as possible.

"Do I even want to know what they were asking you to make you write that?" Reaper's voice startled her slightly, and she briefly spun to look at him, eyes wide in surprise. Then she released the breath she had taken, realizing that he had been reading over her shoulder.

Tank licked her lips in thought, and then put the pencil to the paper.

_They were trying to cheer me up,_ she wrote. She absently worried her bottom lip between her teeth as the graphite scraped over the surface. _I've been a royal bitch for the past month, and I didn't even realize it._

His arms tightened around her shoulders in a comforting gesture. "Even more than usual?"

She turned and glared at him. Reaper chuckled in reply.

"From what I hear," he started thoughtfully, "you had good reason to be." His hazel gaze searched her brandy-brown one. "I'm sorry I worried you."

Tank swallowed, and held the pad of paper still with her wrist while she looked down to scrawl a reply.

_We couldn't raise you on the comms, and none of the search teams were having any luck. I thought you were dead._

He pulled her to him and kissed the top of her head, a familiar mannerism that was just so _Reaper_ that Tank finally relaxed into his side, the tension draining out of her body as quickly as water would drain from a sieve. Peace flooded her being.

She was finally home.

They sat like that for a long few moments before Tank felt Reaper stiffen slightly. Alarmed, she pulled away and sat up, eyes scanning him. She watched as he took a breath and winced. Narrowing her eyes, Tank reached forward and, ignoring his protests, pulled his shirt up. His ribs were wrapped firmly in white gauze. She stared for a second. Then her gaze snapped up to his, a scathing, scolding glare that he was able to interpret with ease. Reaper winced as Tank flew into "medic mode", as the squad had nicknamed this particular mood.

She got to her feet, tugging on his shirt. Exasperated, Reaper followed, knowing that she wouldn't stop until she was sure that he was okay, confirming it with her own eyes. He allowed her to drag him out into the hallway, making a brief stop at the hall closet for the first aid kit, and then into the bathroom. He sat down on the closed toilet lid and rolled his eyes with a resigned sigh. Reaper watched as David passed by the bathroom door. Then he observed as the young man backpedaled to stare at the scene inside. Reaper just gave his brother-in-law a baleful look.

David snickered and left Reaper to Tank's mercy.

When she finally finished with him a half-hour later, Reaper's bandages had been changed, he had imbibed three cups of water, ingested three pills of ibuprofen, and had a hot water bottle pressed into his side. He really didn't know whether to be frustrated or amused or exasperated at his wife's ministrations.

"Amanda," he murmured as she fussed over him some more. She gave him a look of exasperation, but didn't stop fussing. "Amanda."

She ignored him. Finally, Reaper rolled his eyes. His arms snapped out a second later, locking around her waist and pulling her down to sit on his lap. She squirmed for a long moment until he squeezed her.

"You know, it wouldn't hurt if you'd stop writhing," he murmured into her ear. Tank froze for several minutes, and then she felt Reaper chuckling. Realizing how ridiculous she was acting, Tank heaved a laugh, though no sound came out. She finally relaxed into his embrace again, allowing him to tuck her head under his chin. His breath stirred her hair as he chuckled.

They were silent for a while after that. Tank was faintly aware of her brother and sister passing by the bathroom at varying intervals, but otherwise couldn't bring herself to care.

"You know," Reaper murmured eventually. She turned her head to bury her nose in his bare shoulder to show that she was listening. "Much though I appreciate the notion that you love me enough to fuss over me, I'm really almost healed."

Tank sighed. She knew that, she really did, but still...

"I know you know," he murmured into her hair. "Which is why I'm trying to reassure you."

She socked him half-heartedly on the shoulder in reply. He grunted, but it was more of a laugh. She sighed and relaxed a little further into him. His warmth was making her drowsy.

Her sudden yawn took her by surprise, and she blinked. Was she really that tired?

"Sounds like you need some sleep," Reaper observed. Tank pulled away from him enough to let him see the pout on her lips. He chuckled. "Come on, you know you need it. Now, why don't you get ready for bed, and I'll meet you in there as soon as I'm done in the shower?"

Tank paused, halfway through the motions of getting up off of his lap, and looked down at him with some consideration. Reaper watched as her brandy-brown eyes flicked from him to the doorway to her watch to the shower and back. There was a slightly devious glint in her gaze, and a small smirk was curling the corners of her mouth up.

Reaper knew that look.

He sighed, shook his head, and ushered her out of the bathroom.

Leaning down to her ear, he murmured, "Much though I want to, Amanda, I'm really not up for it tonight."

She pouted again, but the look in her eyes was that of slight relief. He interpreted that one correctly, too, and nodded in agreement.

"You're right, it would be awkward doing it in your parents' house," he whispered. Then he kissed her chastely on the cheek and pulled back with a slight smirk, watching her skin flush as she pursed her lips. The look she sent him this time was one of consternation. Nevertheless, she turned and walked to her room, doubtless to change into some pajamas.

Reaper just smiled and closed the door in preparation for his shower.

It took him perhaps five minutes to get stripped out of his clothes and bandages and to get the water running hot. It seemed like it took him even less time to wash his hair and run some soap over his nude body. Reaper only paused long enough to poke contemplatively at a couple of his new scars before he shut off the water, dried off, and then slipped his pants back on. Finally finished, he quickly brushed his teeth and gathered up his discarded clothes.

Then he headed back to Tank's childhood bedroom.

While he'd been in the shower, Tank had converted the bottom bunk from couch-mode to bed-mode and tossed some clean sheets and an extra pillow onto it. She'd even had time to change into a pair of his pajama pants and one of her camisoles. It was one of Reaper's favorites, white with swirling designs embroidered on it in white thread.

Tank looked up at him when he came in, and Reaper could see that she'd been nodding off, fighting sleep as hard as she could until he was back in her sight. Now that she could see him again, Tank grinned sheepishly at him.

Reaper glanced briefly at the clock. The bright blue numbers told him that it was 2132 hours. So he'd taken longer than he had thought in the bathroom? Oh, well. It was still early, but he knew that Tank needed sleep, and frankly, he could do with a little shut-eye, himself. He was still jet-lagged.

He looked at her reassuringly as he put his unwashed clothes in the hamper in the corner.

"I'll be right back," he promised. Tank looked a little leery, but she nodded.

Reaper was briefly surprised when she followed him over to the door, but when he saw that she was heading for the bathroom, he realized that she hadn't taken care of her evening routine, yet. He shrugged, hung his towel in the bathroom, and then made his way out to the living room.

Marie and Keith were sitting on the couch, watching a Star Trek movie from 2010 or so. That one actor who played Leonard "Bones" McCoy- and consequently looked almost exactly like Reaper- was on screen, telling the future Captain James T. Kirk that he might puke on him. Reaper shook his head. He wouldn't mind watching the movie at some other time, but for the moment, he was only interested in passing on a message.

"Hey, mom, dad," he called. Keith and Marie looked over at him inquisitively. Reaper jerked a thumb back towards the bedrooms.

"We're turning in for the night," Reaper told them. "I'm jet-lagged, and Amanda's gotta sleep."

Marie smiled. "Goodnight, then," she said. "I'm glad you're finally home, John."

"Me, too," Reaper admitted. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Keith returned. "Don't do anything that involves loud noises, hear?"

Reaper turned red, and shook his head.

"Don't worry, we won't," he promised. Then he waved again, yawning slightly, and turned to go back to the room.

Tank had already returned, by that time. Reaper simply closed the door behind him, having not seen David or Mary in the hallway to say goodnight.

Tank's arms were warm and welcoming when Reaper climbed into bed with her, pulling the covers over them. She immediately engulfed him in a gentle hug and tangled their legs together. Reaper returned it with relish, burying his nose in her hair. He sighed pleasantly as he slowly followed Tank's example and drifted off into sleep.

It was so, _so_ good to be home.

* * *

_**2044 A.D. - Halley Household, St. Louis, Missouri - 0213 hours**_

_Something exploded to her left- the piercing shriek of rending metal met her ears, deafening in its volume. Then a bullet whizzed past her head, grazing her helmet. She winced, ducked, and raised her assault rifle to take out the sniper she could see amongst the rocks beside the road._

_A high-velocity object crashed into her head at the same time as something hit her left thigh._

_She yelped and blacked out for a minute, her body briefly going numb. Then she managed to get her swimming gaze back under some semblance of control, though her churning stomach was another story entirely. Standing over her was a dark blur, firing into the raiding party. She saw him jerk violently, and then he went down, landing on his stomach in front of her._

_It was Reaper._

_"J-John," she slurred, trying to focus on his face. If they were going to die there, she wanted her last vision of this world to be one of the man she loved._

_He looked at her steadily. There was a glint in his eye, something that set her nerves on edge. A second later, he kissed her gently, and then he was up again, shouting unintelligible words into the mike. Somebody grabbed her by the shoulders, dragging her toward the chopper. It was hot, so hot that the heat waves boiling off of the sand were making her feel even sicker than she already was. She felt the person carrying her stumble. The rest of the squad was making their way to the chopper, as well, everyone except-_

_"John!" she slurred again, stomach churning as she realized that her husband wasn't with them. As the person carrying her loaded her into the chopper, she managed to look back, seeing a dark shape running toward them._

_Then he tripped, a spray of sand going up in front of him, and fell to his knees. He didn't get back up, but she managed to lock gazes with him even at the distance they were at. His hazel eyes were calm, pained, sad. She could see the love and the realization in them as he stared at her. She saw a blond man jump out of the chopper from the corner of her eye- Goat?- but a hail of bullets stopped him before he had gone even ten feet toward Reaper._

_Reaper jerked, eyes going wide. Blood beaded on his split, chapped lips as they pulled apart into a stunned gasp. Then he collapsed softly to the ground, unmoving._

Tank shot up into a sitting position with a gasp, cold sweat trickling down her face from her forehead to mix with her tears, chest heaving. A second later, she crumpled in on herself, clutching her knees to her chest with one arm, pressing her damp face into them, burying her left hand in her hair as she trembled, sobbing silently.

_John,_ she cried mentally. _Lord, why? Why am I tortured with these memories? Was this afternoon really just a dream? Lord, please, help me figure out why I'm being tormented like this!_

There was no answer, but she vaguely felt movement from her right side, and a second later, a pair of warm, strong, familiar arms were wrapped about her shoulders, tucking her into a familiar chest while familiar hands stroked her hair and back and sides comfortingly. His scent, the most welcome and beautiful smell in the world, teased her nose.

Tank unfolded herself from her ball and clung to Reaper, sobbing as he drowsily shushed her.

Gradually, her tears subsided under her husband's ministrations, but Tank couldn't bring herself to sleep, again. Not while she was still so unsure if Reaper was really alive, was really _there._

Moving slowly enough that he'd have time to move out of the way, Tank craned her neck upwards so that she could meet Reaper's eyes, her lips hovering scant millimeters from his, their breaths mingling, their noses touching, their hearts beating in time. She parted her lips and feathered a kiss upon his mouth, sucking gently, tenderly, upon his bottom lip. Tank heard his breathing deepen, felt his pulse pick up as he responded, his body reacting to her touch.

She trailed her hand up his naked chest, mindful of the bruises his ribs were sporting, and smoothed her palm over the new scar that adorned his left shoulder where the bullet that had felled him had torn into his body. Lifting herself slightly, she gingerly straddled him, tucking her knees to either side of his hips. Tank heard Reaper's faint grunt of protest, but he quickly silenced himself when she touched his side to remind him of his injuries.

A second later, Reaper's impatience finally won out, and Tank's camisole was tossed to the floor.

Sucking lightly on his lip again, Tank pulled away so that she could meet his gaze, silently asking if he was up to this. Reaper met her stare steadily, answering her unspoken question with determination, anticipation, understanding, and an almost-staggering amount of love.

As their lips met again, Tank could feel her heart slowly becoming completely whole once more even as it began to pound with her body's mounting excitement. It would take a long time before she was able to fully put this ordeal behind her, but she would heal eventually, now that Reaper was there.

It wasn't long until both of them were breathless, chests heaving. They had already gotten rid of their pajama pants and Reaper's boxers. A second later, Tank's panties landed on the floor next to the rest of the clothes. His hands landed upon her hips and guided her down to meet him solidly.

Tank cried silently as they became one again, clutching him to her as tears of bittersweet joy ran down her cheeks. Reaper stroked her face with his thumbs, wiping away the moisture and claiming her mouth with his. They remained like that for a moment, calming each other somewhat. Then they began to move.

She was careful when she lifted herself off of him, but Tank could still see Reaper's slight wince when she brought herself back down. Her concern for his wellbeing made her pause, lifting her fingertips to his cheek. Reaper opened his eyes and read the worry in hers.

"I'm fine," he whispered to her, his voice husky with lust. Tank nodded, panting breathlessly, and began moving again, feeling his hands on her waist as he helped lift her up and bring her down. It wasn't long at all before they were both gasping and Tank's mind was hazy from the sensations she was floating on. She heard Reaper groan faintly, and hastily leaned forward, capturing his mouth with hers and silencing his sounds. Both of them became acutely aware of the other inhabitants of the house when they paused and heard David cough from the next room over. They were still for a second. Then Tank chuckled just slightly and turned back to her husband, her eyes gleaming at him through the dimly-lit room.

By the sparse light of the street lamp that filtered in from outside through the gap in her curtains, Reaper's hands roamed over Tank's skin even while she ground against him, both their bodies becoming slick with sweat until Tank's bangs stuck to her cheeks and neck and she felt as though she might snap from the tension building in her lower abdomen.

She finally whimpered, pulling away to gasp for breath as Reaper opened his eyes and looked up into her distressed gaze. She wasn't climaxing like she usually would have a while ago, and he refused to let go until she had come. Her confusion was almost palpable, because even though she was almost delirious with pleasure, she still hadn't felt the earth-shaking ecstasy that he usually brought her to.

Reaper, however, seemed to know what to do. He knew her body well enough that he could interpret what was wrong and apply a solution.

Smirking slightly, he lifted his hand to her face and pressed his thumb to her lips. Tank looked at him in confusion.

"Open up," he told her. Tank got what he was telling her to do, and drew his thumb into her mouth, sucking sensually even while she gyrated against him, making him bite his tongue to hold back the groan that was building in his throat. Her brown eyes seemed darker than usual, almost black with her desire. When she had thoroughly coated his thumb with her saliva, he drew her to him, replacing his hand with his mouth as he kissed her deeply, their tongues meeting and tangling.

Reaper reached down to where they were connected and rubbed his thumb over that place he knew drove Tank wild.

In response, she arched into him, her hands flying up to grip his shoulders as she pulled her head away, her chest heaving and her body trembling. Reaper stroked her again, and she shuddered around him. He watched as she clenched her eyes shut and then snapped them open again. She opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again.

"Jh…" The first soft syllable of his name fell from her lips, making him jerk slightly beneath her. "J-John…!"

Reaper groaned, screwed his eyes shut, and leaned forward to bury his forehead in her shoulder. His thumb stroked her a little more rapidly as she picked up her pace, both their chests undulating rapidly. Tank's gasps corresponded perfectly with his thrusts, which he matched with the pressing of his thumb. She moved faster, breathed faster, and he moved faster, breathed faster, both of them in perfect sync with each other.

Finally, _finally, _Tank felt herself reaching that peak.

"John…!" The warning was in her voice even though it wasn't in her words, and Reaper straightened up again, thrusting his hips up to meet hers as his free arm wrapped around her waist and jerked her down to grind against him. He rubbed her a little faster, feeling her thighs clenching around him, and then…

Tank moaned softly as she came, trying to hold in the sounds even as she ground faster and trembled around him, squeezing his shaft with her inner muscles. It was too much for poor Reaper to take, and he fitted his mouth around one of her nipples to stifle his own groan, thrusting up into her a couple more times before he ejaculated into her, pulsing repeatedly.

It was several moments before either of them moved. When the silence was finally broken, it was by Reaper removing himself from her and leaning back against the wall through the gap in the bars of the bunk bed. Tank climbed off of him to snuggle into his side, mindful as always of his ribs, fitting herself into his shoulder in a practiced motion and throwing one of her legs back over both of his.

Another moment passed in silence.

"…Amanda?" Reaper's voice was soft when he called her name, barely louder than a whisper. Tank sighed into his bare chest and lifted her head so that she could meet his slightly concerned gaze.

"'m fine," she breathed, her voice raspy and almost nonexistent from disuse. "Fine as I can be. You?"

He reached up to cup her cheek and pressed his lips firmly to hers, trying to express the full depth of his emotions through the contact. Tank sighed into his mouth, her eyes slipping closed as she felt the love he held for her, as well as the pain from their long separation and the frustration that came from letting his wounds heal. Tank tried to send her own emotions to him in return, but she felt tears welling in her eyes and pulled away slightly when they slipped down her cheeks. Reaper's hands brushed across her face, wiping away the tears even as new ones replaced the old.

"So many tears," he observed softly, even though Tank still didn't open her eyes. "I thought you were happy."

Tank shook her head quickly, leaning up to press another kiss to his mouth before she opened her eyes again and looked tearfully up into his hazel gaze.

"I am!" she protested faintly. "Knowing that you're here, that you're alive… I'm happier than I've ever been."

His thumbs brushed across her cheeks again as more water slipped down them. "But you're still sad, at the same time."

Tank drew a shaky breath, leaning forward to press her forehead into the side of his neck.

"For so long, I thought you weren't coming back," she whispered. "I thought you were gone for good, John. That feeling… the guilt… the pain… It was…"

She paused and cleared the lump from her throat, casting around for an appropriate word to describe the burden she had borne for the month that he had been missing.

"Heavy?" Reaper supplied, running his thumb over her cheek again. Tank shook her head.

"Crushing," she breathed, and then her mask of faux strength cracked and she clung to him once more. Reaper just wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, feeling warm and safe and loved even though they were both aching inside. It was a long time before Tank relaxed bonelessly into his embrace again and he guided her down so that he, at least, could lay his head on the pillow once again. Tank hadn't moved from her position against his side; if anything, she had just tangled them even more. They laid there quietly for a little while, and Reaper felt it as Tank's breathing began to deepen, signifying that she was slowly falling asleep.

"I love you, John…" The whisper was so faint that Reaper had to strain to make it out. "Maybe too much for my own good…"

A small smile quirked his lips as he felt her finally drift off, and he reached down to pull the blanket up over them before he gently ran his fingers through her hair, leaning down and inhaling the sea-breeze scent of her hair. She always smelled like the open ocean. Only one sentence escaped Reaper's mouth before he followed his wife back into dreamland.

"I love you, too, Amanda."

* * *

_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own Doom. I only own the poetic excerpt at the beginning of this chapter, as well as any other quotes of mine, and the plotline (most of it), and any characters you don't recognize. Nyah!_

…_Wow. My face is probably about as red as a tomato with a third-degree sunburn dipped in blood and then torched with a flamethrower right now. Oh, gosh, this is embarrassing… And it's not even my first lemon! I just don't know if it fitted very well in with the rest of the story, that's all. Sigh._

_So Tank and Reaper have been reunited (and then some!). Next chapter marks the beginning of the end, the last arc of the story. Don't worry, it still probably won't end that soon, but it's the third and final arc, meaning that Olduvai is coming up shortly. Oh, you guys are going to HATE me for what I put Reaper and Tank through before we get there. You guys still have to tell me: __**SHOULD I CONTINUE THIS FIC AFTER OLDUVAI, OR SHOULD I JUST PUT IT INTO A SEQUEL?**__ Or, should I just call it quits after this one and work on some of my other stories? _

_Thank you to everyone who reviewed! __**Shattered Mirror01**__ reviewed chapter 34, and __**jess**__ reviewed chapter 2. I'm very glad you both like this story. To __**Shattered Mirror01**__, I hadn't heard of "Everybody's a Little Bit Racist" until you mentioned it (and I have yet to look it up, since things have been so busy lately), but I'm glad someone at least shares my viewpoint. I think it's the truth- everybody IS at least a little racist, some people more than others. Sometimes, we even get racist when we're with particular people, even if we aren't normally. To __**jess**__, I'm glad you caught the RvB references! They're scattered throughout the fic, so if you couldn't tell, I have quite the fondness for RvB. __That series rocks my socks. XD_

_Next chapter should be posted 6-21-10._

_-__**P**__ortrait of a __**S**__cribe_


	36. 2045 AD RRTS Barracks 0500 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_Faith in something greater than ourselves enables us to do what we have said we'll do, to press forward when we're tired, hurt, or afraid, to keep going when the challenge seems overwhelming and the course is entirely uncertain."  
-President Gordon B. Hinckley_

__

**Chapter 35.**

* * *

_**2045 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 0500 hours**_

When Tank awoke that morning three years after her marriage to Reaper, she knew instinctively that something was _not_ right.

She couldn't put her finger on it; whatever it was was not in her immediate surroundings. Tank couldn't sense anything wrong with the room that might have woken her as it had. Finally she sighed, a depressed feeling overtaking her, and sagged back into her bunk with a faint hiss as her upper abdomen throbbed.

Really, it had started weeks ago, this strange depression. Tank had no explanation for it, and she had only become more depressed when she had begun to have pains in her upper abdomen. Her appetite had decreased, as well, as she had begun to regularly suffer from nausea. Once, she had even been sick.

Tank knew that Reaper was worried about her, especially where her appetite was concerned. Tank had lost weight, making her already slight form even slighter. She had finally promised him that she would head up to the Naval Hospital and get checked out after he had cornered her and threatened to force-feed her if she didn't begin eating again.

So it was that at 0530 hours Tank rose with a grimace alongside the rest of the men and got her clothes on before exhaustedly heading out of the barracks and walking north. She tried to walk standing straight, but it hurt too much and she stooped slightly as she moved.

When she entered the hospital, she was immediately greeted by the receptionist and directed to an examination room, where she was given a paper examination gown and left alone to change. She did so quickly. Before long, she was joined by an elderly woman, the doctor.

"Good morning," the doctor said, brushing her wispy grey hair back from her forehead. "And how are you feeling?"

"Like crap," Tank croaked. The doctor raised an eyebrow.

"Well, why don't you tell me your symptoms, and I'll see what I can give you."

So Tank told her the symptoms. Tank told her about the abdominal cramps, showed her their location, told her about the anorexia and the nausea and vomiting and the uncharacteristic depression and the weight loss. Tank even told her about the way that she had missed her period for two months in a row, now.

By the time that Tank's explanation was through, the doctor's face had creases in it that were not only from her age. No, these creases had _caused_ the wrinkles on her face.

"Well?" asked Tank, somewhat breathlessly. The doctor sighed.

"Let me see your hands and eyes," she instructed. Tank blinked, but did as she was told. Her hands were fine, but when the doctor examined Tank's eyes, her features only creased further.

"Has your urine been dark, lately?" the doctor asked conversationally. Tank thought back over the past few days, and then nodded.

"Yeah, some," she said. Then a sneaking suspicion implanted itself in her mind, and she looked at the doctor's grim expression.

"What do you think it might be?" Tank asked, swallowing to wet her suddenly dry throat. She felt nauseous again.

The doctor sighed heavily, adjusted the glasses on the bridge of her nose. Then she looked into Tank's eyes, and the doctor's blue eyes were searching, piercing.

"We'll need to run some tests," she said, "but I think I already know what's wrong with you."

The doctor's next words reached Tank's ears.

Then she promptly felt her world come crashing down without warning.

* * *

_**2045 A.D. - Robert E. Bush Naval Hospital, Twentynine Palms, California - 1800 hours**_

"John Grimm?"

"Yes?"

"Can I see you in my office for a second?"

"What is it, doc?"

The doctor took a deep breath, shifted uncomfortably. "It's about your wife, Amanda Grimm."

Reaper froze mid-step, feeling his heart skip a beat. "What is it? What's the matter?"

"Sergeant Grimm, I really think you should step into my office before-"

"What the _fuck_ is wrong?" Reaper was beyond reasoning. His stress levels had been high ever since Tank's unexplained pains had begun; they'd only skyrocketed when she had thrown up during training the previous week.

The doctor sighed, giving up on trying to get him out of the hall. "Your wife has stage three pancreatic cancer. It's inoperable."

Reaper's world came crashing down around his ears.

He almost missed the elderly woman's next words. "We're recommending chemotherapy, and if that doesn't work, then radiotherapy."

The doctor paused, and then sighed and adjusted the specs on the bridge of her nose. Reaper cut her off, though, before she could speak again.

"What are you saying?" Reaper asked, sounding lost. "She'll be alright... right?"

The doctor gave him a pitying look. "I won't lie to you, Sergeant. Patients diagnosed with pancreatic cancer usually don't _get_ a good prognosis, due to the rather undetectable nature of the disease's early stages."

She adjusted her glasses again. "Less than five percent of patients diagnosed are still alive after five years. Complete remission is extremely rare."

She paused. "I am sorry, Sergeant Grimm, but due to the already advanced nature of your wife's cancer, I can't give her more than about two years, unless the therapy works."

Reaper felt sick to his stomach. He swallowed in an effort to wet his mouth as his thoughts raced through his head.

Tank was dying.

Tank was dying.

Tank was _dying_...

...and he could do nothing about it.

"...Where is she?" he dazedly asked. The doctor looked at him sadly, but beckoned for him to follow her. He did so on shaking legs.

The elderly woman led him down a hall to an examination room, where she stopped and turned to him.

"I'll let you two take a few minutes," she murmured gently. Then she was gone, and Reaper mustered up his strength so that he could reach out and turn the doorknob.

Tank was sitting on the examination table when he came in, looking pale and positively ill. She glanced up at him as he closed the door behind him.

For a few seconds, they simply stared at each other, and Reaper could see a yellow tint to the whites of her eyes that had not been there when he had married her, that had not been there on their last anniversary, that had not been there even two weeks ago. He could see the gauntness that her recent weight loss had produced, could see the pain and exhaustion and shock in her brandy-brown gaze.

"...Hey," she finally whispered after a few minutes. Reaper swallowed, trying to wet his mouth again.

"Hey," he breathed. There was a pause. "Amanda..."

Reaper was not sure what he was going to ask, but it seemed that Tank knew him too well by the current time.

"It's true," she murmured, smiling bitterly as she looked back down at her folded hands. "I have stage three pancreatic cancer, they can't operate, and I'm going to die in less than three years."

She took a deep, shaking breath. Tank was trembling like a leaf in the wind.

"Looks like we won't grow old together, after all," she whispered brokenly. Then her features contorted and she gave a single, audible sob before she pressed her folded hands to her forehead and bowed her head, her thin shoulders shaking.

Reaper didn't know what to do, too stunned to do much more than just stare at his wife. After all, what else could he do? He had just found out that the person he loved most in the world was going to leave him soon, in the most permanent and devastating way possible.

"I... I need to sit down," he whispered slowly, wobbling over to the chair on the north side of the room before he collapsed heavily into it.

Then they were silent but for Tank's hitching breaths and his shaking gasping.

Some anniversary _this_ had been.

* * *

_**2045 A.D. - Robert E. Bush Naval Hospital, Twentynine Palms, California - 1900 hours**_

The first round of radiotherapy had been today.

Tank had gone in that morning, three months after diagnosis and two and half months after beginning of her chemotherapy, to find that none of the drugs they'd used on her had been effective in the slightest. The most they'd done was to clear up the jaundice.

Tank looked up at him as he entered the room, and a bright, though tired, grin overtook her features. She weakly raised a hand in greeting, the IV drip stuck in her arm moving with it. She looked thin, frail...

"Hey," she said. Hell, even her voice was croaky and fragile. Reaper sat down in the chair next to the bed.

"Hey," he replied. Tank studied him for a second, her eyes taking in everything.

"You look thin," she observed. "Have you been eating right?"

"...Yeah." _You're the one who's dying. Why are you worried about _my_ health?_

Tank's eyes were tired, so tired, as he watched her scrutinize him. "What're you thinking, John?"

Reaper took a shaking breath, and then slowly reached out to take her hand in his.

"Why did this happen?" he asked softly. "Why did it happen to _you?_ Why not somebody else?"

Tank smiled shakily, her hand- _Too thin, too weak, this _can't_ be her-_ squeezing his. "That's the question everybody wants an answer to, John, but it's not the one we have to ask."

Tank took a shaking breath, and briefly closed her eyes. "Y'see, the point is that I've already got the cancer, and that it's probably incurable. The real question you should be asking yourself is what you're going to do when I'm gone."

"But-"

"Don't even say it, John," Tank whispered. "I'm still coming to terms with it."

She took another breath, and Reaper could tell that she was fighting back a sob. "I still have to come to terms with the fact that I'm never going to be a mother, that I'll never get to see you laughing and playing with children on the Queeny Park playground. I still have to get used to the fact that my parents are gonna outlive me probably by a good thirty to forty years."

She opened her eyes and turned to look at him with a small smile. "I'm not too worried about them, though. I'm more worried about you."

"Why?" Reaper asked, barely able to get that single word out around the lump in his throat.

"Because I love you more than any of them," Tank said quietly. "And because, no matter what I may do or say at times, I've never wanted you to suffer, especially not because of me."

Reaper cracked a small, wry smile, seeing an opportunity to change the subject. "Not even that time you kicked me in the face during the rope wall course?"

Tank frowned.

"You know that was an accident!" she protested. "Besides, the blood washed out of your clothes easily enough, and after you got the doctor to reset it, your nose doesn't look _too_ crooked."

"So you say," he said with a quiet, half-hearted chuckle.

"Whatever," Tank sighed, and snuggled down into her hospital blankets with a shiver.

There was a pause.

"I'm tired, John." The quiet admission reached his ears, and it was so hopeless that it almost brought him to tears.

Almost.

* * *

_**2045 A.D. - Robert E. Bush Naval Hospital, Twentynine Palms, California - 1200 hours**_

Eight months since she had been diagnosed, they thought that they'd defeated the cancer, by some miracle. One month later, they were proven wrong.

"I thought they fucking said it was in remission!"

"It was, John," Tank replied calmly, though tiredly. Her eyes were sad. "But my family has a history of cancer, and it doesn't always _stay_ in remission."

"Then what? _What?_" Reaper demanded, his voice cracking slightly with the volume and the force of his emotions. He paced the hospital room like a caged tiger, clenching and unclenching his hands. "You can't fucking die, Amanda!"

Tank frowned, and she suddenly looked and felt decades older than she was.

"I'm dying, John," she stated levelly. "The doctors can't help me. That's the reality of it."

Reaper spun toward her, and his eyes were wild and desperate. "It doesn't fucking _have_ to be that way!"

But Tank was already shaking her head. "The radiation didn't work, John, and the chemo's been completely ineffective. They can't operate."

She took a breath. "But if I'm gonna die, I don't wanna die in some fucking hospital. I wanna die protecting the people I love. I've already OK'd it with Sarge..."

This halted Reaper in his tracks. He stared at her, slack-jawed, for a few moments.

"Amanda," he finally choked out. Tank smiled sadly at him, and Reaper was almost able to find a hint of her old, cheerful, sarcastic self in the shell of a woman before him.

"I'm coming back to the barracks, John," Tank said quietly. "I'll need a little help getting back in shape, but I think I can do this... I _know_ I can do this."

"But... why?" he asked. Tank chuckled softly at the question that had been the most often-asked in the past nine months.

"Because, for one thing, it's almost Christmas," she said, "and they're just as much my family as you and the folks back home are."

She took a deep breath. "Also, because even if I'm _not_ strong, I think that I can _become _strong, even if it's only for the last few months of my life. I don't wanna die weak and shivering in some hospital bed."

Tank shook her head. "No, I'm gonna die in battle. It'll be a shorter, less painful end than waiting it out, anyway."

It was then that Reaper finally broke down, collapsing into the chair and pressing his forehead into his hand. Tank had seen him cry once before, but she had no words of comfort, no words to ease the pain. Any words she could have said would have been lies, or they would have only worsened it.

And so she waited while Reaper vented, and counted away the sands in the hourglass as sweet life slipped by.

She was dying... and there was nothing she could do about it except go out with a bang.

* * *

_**2046 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 0600 hours**_

Sarge sat next to Reaper at breakfast that morning. The ordeal with Tank had brought the two men closer, to a point where they were almost friends. Sarge noticed the drawn look on Reaper's face, the pallor to his skin, and the shadows under the younger man's eyes. Tank's absence from the breakfast table was also conspicuous.

"Are you sick?" Sarge asked. Reaper sighed, absently stabbing at a piece of egg with his fork.

"No," Reaper replied, completely humorless. There was a pause. "Tank had a bad night last night."

That got Sarge's attention, and he winced as he bit into his toast. "How bad?"

Reaper didn't answer for a moment.

"...Really bad," he finally whispered. "I let her sleep this morning. I'm hoping she'll have enough energy to eat something later on..."

For the past week since Tank had come home, she had taken to sleeping in the infirmary due to the pains that she regularly suffered from, as well as the vomiting that she often endured. Reaper sometimes kept her company.

Around the table, the other men exchanged looks of sadness and sympathy, each of them grieving silently in his own way for the sister who lay dying down the hall.

"How's her family taking it?" Sarge asked quietly. Reaper sighed.

"They didn't take it well in the first place," he grumbled around a mouth full of scrambled eggs. He swallowed, and then continued, "They want her to come back to Missouri, to try the treatments again."

He paused to scowl down at his plate. "Tank won't hear of it, of course."

Sarge cracked a small, wry smile. "That's Amanda for you. Always a fatalist."

"Always a realist, you mean," said a tired voice from the doorway. The men all glanced up to see Tank entering the room, fully dressed for the day's training. She had a weary smile on her face, the same one she always wore nowadays.

As she crossed over to the stove to make herself a mug of clove tea, she looked a bit more like her old self, the way she was before her symptoms had begun appearing. She had even put on a bit of weight, it seemed.

"You're lookin' better today, Tank," Duke said lightly, and Reaper glanced over at the black man in time to see him look over at Reaper and wink. "You sure you don't wanna take me up on that offer I made?"

Reaper saw Tank freeze for a moment before she looked back over her shoulder at Duke with a 'what-the-fuck-are-you-smoking' look on her face.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" she asked incredulously. Duke grinned.

"You, me," he began suavely, staring at his hand as though studying his fingernails, "a moonlit drive along the coastal highway..."

"You wish," Tank snorted, but she was smiling in a way that made her eyes twinkle, just like they used to.

It was times like this when Reaper was simply grateful for the time that they'd had, and the time that they had left.

* * *

_**2046 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 1000 hours**_

Tank had only been back at barracks for two weeks when the next incident happened.

They were running their usual morning course when suddenly she stumbled and went to her knees, one arm around her middle. Reaper, who'd been running beside her, and Goat, who'd been running shortly behind her, immediately stopped. Reaper crouched next to her and placed a hand in the middle of her back.

"Tank?" he asked. "You okay?"

Tank took a couple of deep breaths. Then she lurched to her feet and staggered onward. Goat and Reaper stared after her for a second. Then Reaper followed her.

Only Goat realized that Reaper's hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists.

Later that evening, Goat found Reaper in the gym, wailing on a punching bag with all the force he could muster. All Goat did was walk over to the other side of the bag and hold it steady. He knew that Reaper would talk- or shout- when he wanted to, and no sooner.

"Why did this have to happen to her?" Reaper asked a few seconds later, each strangled syllable punctuated with a strike to the bag. "Why did God have to do this to _her?_"

Goat pretended not to notice the tears that he heard in the younger man's voice.

There was a pause.

"Have you ever heard the phrase 'only the good die young'?" Goat asked quietly.

"_FUCK THAT!_" Reaper roared, the sheer volume behind his exclamation enough to make Goat flinch. Goat had to brace himself as the force behind Reaper's punches increased.

"If only the good die young, then maybe we should never live in the first place!" Reaper continued furiously, each impact of his fists against the sand-filled bag jarring them both. Goat felt his teeth rattle upon an especially potent blow.

"This world is full of sin, trial, and death, John," Goat intoned quietly. "And sometimes God calls the righteous to be with Him before their loved ones' times. It doesn't mean that you'll never see her again."

Then suddenly the punching stopped, and a weight sagged against the bag opposite Goat. He blinked, and peered around the bag at Reaper, who was leaning heavily against it. The younger man had pressed his arms to the rough canvas and buried his face in them. Goat could see Reaper's heaving shoulders trembling.

"But why _her?_" he panted, and his voice was level if a little shaky. Goat absently wondered how long Reaper had been down there punching the thing.

"We might never know, Reaper," Goat intoned. "Only the Father knows for sure."

Reaper didn't reply.

* * *

_**2046 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 2000 hours**_

Reaper had become very attuned to Tank during the four years they'd been married. So it was that he was one of the first to notice some of the more interesting- and sometimes amusing- habits that she had formed after the diagnosis, the ineffective treatments, and her return to the barracks.

The first one he noticed was that she would spontaneously begin singing or humming the most random of tunes, uncaring of whether or not she was on key. When he asked her about it during the second week she was home, Tank told him that she'd started humming when she was alone in the hospital and the silence grew to be too quiet for her. She said that she'd only hummed when it was as quiet as the grave.

The second habit that Reaper observed was her seemingly newfound disregard for personal space.

In the evenings after training, Tank would sometimes just go over and pick a person apparently at random from the squad before either sitting on their lap or poking them in the arm or head until she got a reaction.

It was this second thing that she was doing at the current moment.

Her sly smirk as she did so couldn't be hidden.

"Poke," she said as she prodded Jumper's temple. "Poke. Poke. Poke. Poke-"

"Hey! Enough, already!" Jumper finally exclaimed. Reaper had to admire the nervous man's patience- Tank had been poking him for nearly five minutes.

Tank grinned. "Wow, Jumps, I think you just set a new course record!"

"For what?"

"Patience." Tank's voice was matter-of-fact. "And the ability to ignore distraction."

"Behälter," laughed Pug from his bunk. "Leave the poor man alone! Come, you haven't sat on me yet, this week."

Tank looked at him oddly. "But it's not your turn to get sat on, tonight."

"You haven't sat on me in almost a month!"

Tank gave Pug an Air Force salute as she plopped down next to Jumper. "I've known you longer."

It was then that Reaper realized what she was doing, and why she never sat on him while the others were around.

After all, Tank had always said that she "wanted to tell God everything nice that she could about her squadmates so that hopefully they could join her in heaven when they died".

Briefly, Reaper wondered what she would say about _him_.

* * *

_**2046 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 1400 hours**_

Tank groaned and pressed her hot face to the cool porcelain tiles beneath her, trying to ignore the agony in her abdomen as best she could.

She really missed Reaper in that moment.

The squad had been called out for a mission earlier that day, but Tank had collapsed due to a flare-up and Sarge had told her to stay at base. So there she was, lying on her left side on the floor of the infirmary bathroom, in pain and with a terrible taste in her mouth, anxiety clenching her heart even as her stomach knotted uncomfortably.

They'd been sent back to South America.

The only problem was that Tank's gut instinct, her woman's intuition, was telling her that not all of them were going to make it back, this time.

_Please, God, please don't take Reaper away from me,_ Tank prayed fervently. _Please don't take any of them, but especially please don't take my John._

She groaned as her gut clenched again, and barely managed to heave herself up enough to vomit bile into the toilet. When nothing remained in her stomach, she moved on to the dry-heaving stage, and when that was over, she slumped bonelessly back to the floor with a miserable moan.

"God, why?" she asked into the silence. "Lord, why do I have to suffer so? Did I do something wrong? Is this punishment for the lives I've taken in service to my country?"

There was no answer, but Tank knew, in her heart, that the silence _was_ her answer.

"Alright, Lord," she said softly. "I trust in Your judgment, and in Your mercy. I trust You to do what is best for everybody here. I just pray that You will take my pain away soon, one way or another..."

She trailed off, hearing the atrium door open and the stamp of booted feet.

"...and that You will ease John's pain when I pass away, so that he doesn't do anything self-destructive," she continued quietly. "In Your name I pray. Amen."

Tank drew a deep, trembling breath after the conclusion, laying there in silence with her sweaty face pressed to the blessedly-cool tiles.

A few minutes passed, and nobody came to check up on her. Tank began to fear the worst. Then she heard footsteps in the infirmary, and the low murmur of words that she couldn't pick up. They sounded grim.

Tank's breath hitched in a soft sob, knowing that somebody had died.

"John?" she croaked thickly. The voices stopped. A second later, there were uneven footsteps that entered the bathroom, and a strong hand landed on her right shoulder.

"I'm here." Reaper!

"Thank God," she moaned softly, relief flooding through her. "Thank God, you're alive..."

There was a pause.

"They got Pug, Tank."

Tank's breath hitched in her throat, and she curled up into a ball as the news hit her like a blow to her already-agonized stomach.

"I knew they got somebody," she sobbed quietly, "and I feel horrible for being so relieved that it was him and not you."

Reaper's hands were gentle as he drew her into a sitting position, seating himself so that he could cradle her against his chest, stroking her hair with one hand and holding her head against his shoulder with the other. Tank just cried with both relief and grief, inhaling the scent of blood and gunpowder and sweat on her husband, underneath which lingered his usual musky smell.

Tank just felt glad that she was in his arms, again.

"Are you okay?" she finally sniffled after a few minutes. Reaper gave her a hesitant shrug.

"You don't know?" she demanded, and weakly pulled away so that she could look him up and down. Reaper's face was creased with something that she couldn't name, and with a jolt, Tank realized that he looked like he was thirty-five instead of twenty-five.

Then she realized sadly that he had been looking like that more and more, lately.

"Got a fractured femur," Reaper murmured softly. "That's all."

Tank gasped, and tried to pull away from him, but he held her to him, taking a shaking breath. Tank finally relaxed and allowed him to do what he wanted.

"Don't worry, it's the other leg," he intoned softly, burying his nose in her hair. Tank sighed and leaned into his chest, relishing his heat.

Because really, his warmth was more comforting to her than the cold tiles had been, if only because he was still real, still solid...

...still _alive_.

* * *

_**2046 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 1900 hours**_

Tank sighed and lay back on her cot. She was feeling better than she had in weeks, and _that_ was saying something.

The day was February seventh, Tank's twenty-sixth birthday. She'd woken that morning with surprisingly little pain in her gut, and had even been able to keep down her breakfast of toast, eggs, and oatmeal.

Training had even gone well. She had experienced very little discomfort during their daily run, and had actually made it through without having to stop.

_A miracle if I ever saw one,_ she mused. After calisthenics, she had managed to lift weights with them for a solid hour before she finally had to stop. Really, she could've gone further, but Reaper had told her to rest. Sarge'd backed him, and so Tank was forced to sit and watch while the men then had their bi-monthly sparring competition.

_Damn, and I wanted to kick somebody's ass, too._

So here she was, lounging on her bunk at seven o'clock in the evening while the men showered and all that.

Tank sighed, pushing out her lower lip and blowing a strand of chocolate-brown hair out of her face. _Wish I had a good glass of brandy right 'bout now. Or maybe a piece of chocolate cake. Yeah, that'd be nice._

Because none of the men had said anything about it being her birthday today. Tank had just brushed it off, unconcerned. After all, the days tended to blend together with their rather routine manner. Tank wouldn't have been surprised if they thought her birthday was next week, if they remembered it at all.

At that moment, the men came in from the locker room, most of them clad in their casual clothes, which consisted of fatigues and t-shirts. Reaper had on black sweats and an underarmor shirt. Tank, herself, was clad in a pair of her fatigues, cinched tightly at the waist, and one of Reaper's tan uniform t-shirts.

He eyed her as he approached his bunk. "Is that my shirt?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Tank sing-songed. She glanced down at the t-shirt, and plucked an invisible piece of lint off of it, studying her nails afterward.

Reaper's eyes narrowed. "That _is_ my shirt!"

Tank stretched languidly, closing her eyes and arching into the mattress with a long, contented sigh as she crossed her arms behind her head. "And what're you going to do about it?"

There was no reply.

After a few seconds, Tank cracked open an eye to look at Reaper, only to find that he wasn't there. Blinking, she sat up, looking around the barracks for him.

An instant later, she yelped as a strong arm grabbed her around the neck, pulling her toward a rock-hard chest. Then her head was tilted to the side, and something wet was pushed into her ear.

Tank's shriek could be heard throughout the barracks.

She squirmed out of the grip and leapt off of the bunk, whirling around as she scrubbed furiously at her ear.

"_Reaper!_" she yelled. She barely noted that the pitch of her voice rose a full octave. "I can't _believe_ you just did that!"

Reaper just smirked at her, tossing a familiar-looking tan t-shirt up and down in his hand as his hazel gaze scanned Tank up and down. Then a draft hit the back of Tank's neck, and she glanced down at herself.

Her face flared red in mortification as she realized that she was standing there, in the middle of the barracks, wearing only her sports bra and her fatigues.

"_Reaper!_" she shrieked, and dove for her husband. Reaper's eyes grew wide, and he launched himself off of the cot, running for the door with Tank hot on his heels.

"You fucking _bastard!_ You did _not_ just do that!" she shouted, making a flying leap for Reaper. She caught him around the middle, and they went down in a heap. The air whooshed out of Reaper's lungs when she landed on top of him, and Tank made a mad grab for the t-shirt.

Reaper, however, was too quick, too determined, and held it out of her reach. Tank growled, grabbed his arm, and pulled it down toward her. Her fingers finally closed over the tan material, but Reaper would not give it up, smirking at her the whole time.

Tank paused to glower down at him. Then she grinned in a malicious, maniacal manner, and drove her thumb into the pressure point at the base of his thumb.

Reaper let go of the shirt with a surprised yelp, and Tank yanked the material and herself away from him with a triumphant cry.

"Ha!" she gasped out, standing. She planted her hands on her hips and smirked victoriously down at Reaper as he nursed his hand. "Serves you right, you jerk!"

"That's _my_ shirt," he grumbled, but he was smiling faintly as he did.

At least until his gaze landed upon Tank's abdomen. Then it vanished abruptly.

Tank glanced down at her stomach. It was mottled with purple bruises, and had become progressively more so as her cancer had progressed. Now it looked as though she had been punched in the gut a few dozen times.

"Like what you see?" she questioned, shaking out the shirt and slipping her arms through it. Reaper frowned up at her painfully as she slipped the t-shirt over her head and straightened it to hang loosely around her hips.

"Come on, Reaper," she said abruptly. Her eyes twinkled down at him. "Lighten up a little! It's only a _t-shirt, _for Pete's sake!"

Reaper scowled up at her.

"_What_ is going on here?" Tank looked up at the stairwell to see Sarge standing there, his hands on his hips. Tank grinned brightly at him while Reaper just fumed quietly where he was still laying on the floor.

"Reaper and I just had a little disagreement," she said. It was only then that she noticed the rest of the squad laughing.

"Reaper, _man_, she totally just _owned_ you!" crowed Duke from his bunk, clutching his sides. Sarge raised an eyebrow at the pair in question.

"She stole my shirt," Reaper grumbled. Sarge's dark brown eyes glanced at Tank's chest, and she smirked, puffing out her chest like a proud peacock.

"You like it, Sarge?" she asked teasingly, deciding to put Sarge on the spot. She pressed her hands to her ribs, pushing her breasts up as she looked down at them studiously. "I think it flatters me, no?"

As the room erupted in a renewed burst of laughter, Sarge's face flared red and Reaper stared at her in mortification, both of them slack-jawed. Tank finally dropped the act in favor of bending over, bracing herself on her knees as she gasped for air through her mirth.

"Your _faces!_" she wheezed, still giggling madly. "_Priceless!_"

"Tank," called Jumper breathlessly. Tank looked over at him with streaming eyes to see him picking himself up off of the floor next to his bunk. "Tank, that was _great!_"

And he promptly fell over laughing again when Tank struck the old 'Captain Morgan' pose.

* * *

_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own Doom._

…_I know. It's cliché, isn't it? The whole cancer thing. Like Tank observed in chapter 31, "Our life is a soap opera." But I did notice that all the fics where it's ReaperOC, if the OC dies at all, then she usually dies during the Olduvai mission. Trying to be original, here… so sorry if it seemed like something out of "Days of Our Lives" or some other 90s soap opera that Spike from BtVS would like. XD Yay for Spike._

_Spike is the coolness. Don't get me wrong. But soap operas… Uh, __**no**__. Ahem. Olduvai will begin probably the chapter after next or so. If it's the chapter after next, then chapter 37 will probably be short. Lotsa dialogue, you know?_

_I still haven't gotten an answer, either. __**SHOULD I CONTINUE THIS AFTER OLDUVAI, OR SHOULD I CUT IT OFF?**__ I need some input here, people. Thanks! :D_

_Thank you to __**jess**__ for reviewing the last chapter! I'm glad you caught the RvB references!_

_**HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY TO ALL MY FELLOW AMERICANS OUT THERE!**_

_Next chapter should be posted 7-12-10._

_-__**P**__ortrait of a __**S**__cribe_


	37. 2046 AD RRTS Barracks 2350 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_A dream that cannot be may be one's only reason to go on."  
_–_Anonymous_

__

**Chapter 36.**

* * *

_**2046 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 2350 hours**_

"Tank!"

Tank jolted awake with a gasp, her eyes flying open as she peered through the gloom to see who it was that had awoken her.

"Reaper?" she whispered groggily.

"Ssh!" A warm hand landed on her shoulder. "Come on."

Tank yawned and sat up before getting to her feet. "What time is it?"

"Almost midnight," Reaper breathed in reply. Tank allowed him to lead her, and within moments they were standing in the darkened locker bay. Reaper let go of her hand, and a second later she heard the quiet click of a latch. The lights flipped on, and Tank blinked blearily around at the empty room.

"What's up?" she yawned. Reaper's arms slid around her middle, and she leaned back into his chest as he briefly buried his nose in the side of her neck.

"Want some?" she asked sleepily as he ran his hand down her side to her hip. Reaper grunted.

"Nah," he murmured. "Just wanna hold you for a little while."

Tank hummed contentedly, closing her eyes with another jaw-cracking yawn.

"How're you feeling?" he asked after a few minutes. Tank inhaled deeply.

"Sleepy," she admitted slowly, voice thick. "Not awake, yet."

She paused. "Why'd you wake me up, anyway? Couldn't've been just to hold me."

Reaper sighed, and Tank shivered as his hot breath floated across her neck.

"You're right," he mumbled, pressing his lips to her skin. Tank gasped at the contact. They hadn't had relations since a little while before she had been diagnosed, really- most of the time she was in too much pain to even think about it. Now that she was feeling well enough for such things, Reaper didn't want it, and she found that the kiss he had given her felt almost strange after so long.

"John," she whispered, and reached up to tangle her fingers in his hair. "You sure you don't want any? We could go in the gym..."

"Amanda," Reaper sighed, briefly tightening his grip around her waist. "We can't..."

"Yes, we can," she said, her voice taking on an almost-desperate firmness that briefly surprised even her. "I'm not hurting right now, John. This might be one of the last chances we have..."

Tank turned around in his embrace to press her hands to his chest, leaning up and fervently capturing his lips with hers.

Reaper growled into her as she forcefully pried his lips apart, her tongue delving into his mouth before she pulled back slightly to suck gently on his lower lip. She nipped it lightly. Then she ran her tongue along his lip to nurse the hurt while Reaper grunted quietly.

Then he pushed her away.

Tank stared at him with glazed eyes, both of them panting, their lips red and swelling from the bruising force she had used. Tank felt his hands trembling where he was gripping her shoulders.

"John...?" she asked quietly. He took a few deep breaths, his eyes dark with longing. Then he let go of her.

Tank was surprised when he walked over to one of the sinks lining the wall.

"Come here," he said, keeping his voice low. Tank blinked, and walked over to Reaper, glancing at him in curiosity when he moved to stand behind her.

"I wanted to give this to you earlier," he murmured, "but I couldn't find the right time."

Tank smiled. "You mean you didn't want the guys to see you do it."

"I fell asleep before I could," he countered, giving her a pointed look in the mirror. Tank chuckled, and then reached back and touched his arm.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I was almost afraid everyone had forgotten..."

Reaper leaned over her shoulder to place a tender kiss on her cheek. "Not everyone. Now close your eyes."

Tank smiled softly and complied, her eyes drifting closed. A second later, she briefly felt Reaper's hands come around her shoulders before he withdrew them and a light weight settled in the hollow of her throat.

"There," he said. "You can look, now."

Tank opened her eyes.

Around her neck hung a small cross, the delicate-looking chain it was attached to just long enough so that the cross rested comfortably in the dip where her collarbones met at her breastbone. It was golden, about the size of a quarter.

In the center of the cross was set a blood-red ruby, carved in the likeness of a rose.

Tank felt tears come to her eyes, touched beyond words. She felt her throat close up, and as she reached up to touch the necklace, Tank's breath hitched in a soft sob.

Reaper's arms immediately looped around her middle, and he rested his chin on her shoulder.

"What's the matter?" he whispered. Tank wriggled loose enough so that she could turn around and throw her arms around his neck, embracing him tightly. Tank squeezed her eyes shut, and the tears ran down her cheeks to soak into Reaper's black shirt.

"Thank you," she breathed, her voice choked with emotion. "Thank you so much, John."

He turned his smile into her temple before he pressed a small kiss to her skin. "Happy birthday, Amanda."

"Thank you," she said again. Reaper inhaled, and for a few moments, they just held each other, knowing that soon they would not even have that much.

Eventually, Reaper reached out and flipped on the small light above the sink. Then he left her briefly in order to flip off the overhead lights. A few seconds later, Tank was back in his arms, her nose buried in his chest.

After a while, Reaper gently guided Tank's face up to his. His kiss was tender, gentle, tinged with sadness. It didn't last long, but then he sat down on the floor next to the sink, pulling her down with him so that she was seated between his legs, leaning back against his chest as he leaned on the wall.

For a few moments, they were silent as they sat there, until Reaper suddenly reached around her to splay his hands on her stomach. Tank smiled and covered his hands with her own.

"You know," she suddenly ventured, her voice quiet, "I'm glad I got to know and love you, John."

Reaper was quiet, allowing her to talk, uninterrupted. Tank swallowed, but she didn't feel sad, just a little... detached.

"This'll probably be my last birthday," she mused softly. Tank interlaced her fingers with his, pressing down on her belly. "Somehow, I when always pictured us sitting like this, I got this image in my head of you pressing your hands to me just like this-"

Tank put his left hand just above her navel, and pressed his right hand into her stomach just to the left of her right hip.

"Only, my belly would be large," she continued, a sudden eloquence seizing her tongue, "and full with our child."

She chuckled quietly. "I'd feel completely _miserable_," she mused, "'cause I'd've just been kicked in the bladder or the ribs, and you'd just sit there and laugh at the look on my face as I'd gently scold our baby."

Tank smiled ruefully as Reaper leaned down to bury his face in the crook of her neck.

"And then you'd chide me for scolding the unborn," Tank said, and her voice was amused as she closed her eyes and pictured it.

"And how'd I react when you first tell me we're going to be parents?" Reaper asked unexpectedly. Tank sighed contentedly and snuggled back into his warmth.

"You'd stare at me for a few minutes," she told him, "and then you'd go on a stuttering spree. You'd pace the room, slap yourself a couple times to make sure you're awake, maybe trip on something while you're trying to wear a hole in the floor. Then I'd kiss you to shut you up and, depending on where we are and what time it is, we'd make passionate love for a few hours right there in the middle of that floor you were trying to wear out."

Reaper's quiet chuckle bounced Tank a little. "Sounds like you've got the whole thing figured out."

"I try," she sighed with a smile. They were silent for a few minutes, and the clock crept past midnight and on towards one.

"There're so many things I want to say," she whispered suddenly, tracing idle shapes on the back of Reaper's right hand. "So many things I want to tell you, but can't..."

"Then just tell me," Reaper breathed. Tank inhaled deeply and let the air out in a resigned sigh.

"I don't know how," she replied, a crease forming between her eyebrows as she stared sadly off into the dimness of the locker bay. "I just can't find the words to describe these things..."

"Say whatever comes to your mind." he encouraged her gently. Tank was silent for a second.

"I wanted to be a mom," she murmured at last. "I wanted to have a baby to hold, to nurse, to raise and love. I wanted to have a baby with your eyes and temperament and my smile... I wanted to feel him grow inside me, to hold him in my arms, and then watch you hold him for the first time..."

Tank took a shaking breath. "There's so much I wanted to experience with you, and..."

Tank turned to press her face into the side of his head. Her voice was choked when she next spoke. "And it hurts, John. It actually physically _hurts_ when I realize that it'll never _happen_."

She paused, and relaxed slowly against her husband's chest.

"...And then I realize," she breathed after a moment of contemplation, "that even if I could have those things, I would not hesitate for a second to give them up if it meant that I could have even a moment longer with you."

Reaper just squeezed her lightly. Tank drew another trembling breath.

"John, I want you to promise me something," she said, her voice more serious than it had been in a while.

"Anything."

"When I'm gone," she said, and then broke off before she kept talking. "When I'm gone, I want you to move on. Find somebody else to love. Don't waste any time, just be with her, don't let her go, and treasure her forever. Learn to love her as you've loved me..."

Now it was Reaper's turn to draw a shaking breath. "What if I don't want to?"

"You will," Tank whispered, caressing his hand. "Trust me, you will. And I'll be watching from heaven with my grandparents to make sure you're treating her right. And if you're not, I'll come back and haunt you like the ghost of Christmas future, chains and scary cloak included."

They were quiet for a moment, and then Reaper suddenly drew a hitching breath, squeezing her waist almost crushingly.

"I don't want you to die," he gasped into her neck. "You're leaving me alone, just like mom and dad did, and it hurts even more than it did when they died. It hurts so much more, Amanda."

Tank listened wordlessly, doing nothing more than rub the back of his hand.

"Every time I look at you I think 'She's right there, she's doing fine, it's all just been a bad dream'," he continued, and Tank could detect the waver in his voice. "And then you'll have a flare-up and I'll remember that you're dying, and it's like getting stabbed in the gut and getting all my ribs broken at once, and it takes me a few seconds to remember how to breathe because it hurts so much."

Reaper fell silent, and they did not speak for a few minutes. Then Tank absently reached up to caress the new cross around her neck.

"John," she whispered. He took a breath in response. "John, look at me."

A couple of seconds passed. Then Reaper slowly lifted his head off of her shoulder and turned to stare Tank in the eye, his pained hazel meeting her sad brandy-brown.

"I'll take this cross to the grave with me, John," Tank said softly, "but don't let me take your heart with me. I'll give you mine to keep forever, but don't bury your heart in my coffin."

Tank kissed him tenderly before pulling away and giving him her last words for the night.

"I love you too much to let you do that."

Reaper stared at her for a few seconds, his eyes studying her. Tank got the distinct feeling that he was trying to memorize her. Then he kissed her, tenderly, passionately, and she tasted tears on his lips even as she ran her hands down his chest, deciding to take this chance while it lasted.

They made love into the night right there, there on the floor of the locker bay, and it was the first time that their hearts had really connected as they did so.

It was so bittersweet that they both wept afterwards.

* * *

_**2046 A.D. - Robert E. Bush Naval Hospital, Twentynine Palms, California - 2000 hours**_

Tank stared blearily up at the white ceiling tiles and sighed resignedly.

Having pancreatic cancer totally _sucked._

To her right, Reaper was snoozing in a bed they had pulled over, the dark shadows under his eyes and the paleness of his skin- save for the fever-flush of his cheeks- indicative of the fact that he'd caught a bout of the flu. This, of course, was the reason why Tank was currently in the hospital, being woken every hour on the hour by nurses coming in to check on her vitals.

_It's April thirteenth, already. Why can't I just have two months without having to go into the hospital?_

They'd had another mission just earlier that day. Tank had actually been able to go on this one, but afterwards, on the long flight home, Reaper had started feeling ill. The second the chopper had set down, he had darted out of the aircraft, taken a few listless steps, and then bent over to empty his stomach onto the pavement of the helipad.

Tank had swallowed back her own nausea in favor of running over and steadying him.

She had taken Reaper to the hospital just northwest of the helipad, promising Sarge that she would file their reports later. Reaper had thrown up once more on the way there, and by that time, Tank had gotten worried.

As it turned out, Reaper just had a nasty case of the flu, and the doctors had put him on some medicine and told them that he would just have to get through it like any other time.

The only problem had been Tank's own diminished immune system. The doctors had decided to keep her there overnight for monitoring, and she had reluctantly allowed them to do so.

That had been almost two hours ago.

Tank sighed, and turned to stare at her husband as he groaned quietly, turning over in his sleep. His cheeks were still bright red from the fever he was fighting. Tank could see a slight glaze of sweat on his face as he dreamed fitfully.

A sudden knock at the doorframe caught Tank's attention, and she looked over to see Sarge standing at the entrance to the room. Tank smiled at him.

"Sarge," she greeted. Sarge nodded, and walked in. Tank raised an eyebrow at him.

"You sure you wanna do that?" she asked. "You got a soldier with the flu in here. I'm sure you don't wanna catch it."

Sarge gave her an Air Force salute. "I've already been exposed to it, anyway," he said, unconcerned. "If I get sick, I get sick."

Tank chuckled quietly. "Yeah, well, keep it down. Reaper's a downright bitch when he's sick, and you know it."

"Heard that," Reaper mumbled. Tank jerked, her gaze snapping over to her husband, only to find that he was still asleep.

Tank and Sarge blinked at Reaper for a moment, and then Tank shook her head in amusement.

"Beats the fuck outta me how he does that," she whispered. Then she turned her attention back to Sarge. "So, what's up?"

Sarge smiled slightly at her and sat down in the chair to her left. "Reaper's just been promoted."

Tank blinked. Shook her head. Blinked again.

"Promoted?" she echoed. "To what?"

"Staff Sergeant." Sarge glanced over at Reaper's sleeping form. "Practically my second-in-command, effective tomorrow. And you've just been promoted to Sergeant."

He released a long breath and got to his feet again. "Congratulations, Sergeant Grimm. See you when you get better."

Tank could do little more than stare at Sarge as he walked back out of the room.

..._Sergeant Grimm?_

* * *

_**2046 A.D. - Robert E. Bush Naval Hospital, Twentynine Palms, California - 0900 hours**_

Tank sighed as she stared down through the glass into the room below, where Reaper was strapped to a gurney underneath a shield of Plexiglas. Electrodes were taped to his temples, and a number of sensors rotated slowly over his head, scanning his brain.

The day was July twenty-fifth.

Just six weeks before, Tank had had another flare-up, and then the squad had been sent on that ill-fated mission to the methane fields in South America. Tank hadn't been able to go, but from what Goat had told her, Reaper had gone ballistic.

After all, it wasn't every day that the closest thing Reaper had to a best friend got his head blown in half.

Still, the military therapist had insisted on the psychological therapy, saying that combat stress reaction could cause him to break down in the middle of a mission, which would, of course, be catastrophic. And so there they were. It was the latter end of July, Reaper was going through the therapy, and Tank was watching, offering her silent support despite the fire in her stomach.

She saw Reaper tense fitfully under the glass, his eyes opening briefly but not seeing anything. Tank's gut clenched, but it was not from the desire to vomit, this time. Not since she was chewing on a piece of crystallized ginger.

No, this clenching stemmed from the fact that her Reaper, _her John_, was being forced to relive one of his most painful memories, and she could do nothing about it but sit and _watch_. Tank got the surreal feeling that the techs around her were actually being _entertained_ by it.

It made Tank feel dirty and sick.

She turned away as Reaper writhed, unable to observe any longer.

"I think he's fighting the therapy," observed one of the technicians. "Maybe we'd better-"

"No." The voice was that of the female psychological technician who had ordered the therapy. Tank whirled around to face the woman, about to demand that she halt the process, when the doctor spoke again.

"If he doesn't relive this now, he'll relive it as repression stress," the woman said, her voice light and almost-amused. "He'll snap in combat."

Tank gritted her teeth, looking down just as Reaper twisted in a manner that suggested extreme pain.

_What are you seeing that torments you so?_

A few more minutes passed, and the expression on his face became more and more pained, terrified, vicious.

"Turn it off!" Tank yelled, finally unable to take any more. "Turn it off! You're hurting him!"

"No," the lady psych tech said, giving Tank a condescending smile. "We will not turn it off until he-"

"Doctor, we've lost track of the memory!" called another technician. The doctor paused, and then sighed, briefly sending a glare Tank's way, as though it was her fault that it had failed. Tank glared back with all the force she could muster, her brandy-brown eyes promising cold death for the doctor unless she backed down.

The psych tech shook her head derisively and then left the room.

A second later she reappeared, down in the lower room where Reaper was, a smile on her pretty-but-pudgy face. Tank could hear her voice through the one-way speakers that led from the lab floor to the control room.

_Two-faced bitch! I'm gonna-_

"John Grimm?" the doctor asked sweetly. "Are you with us?"

Tank watched Reaper frown disgruntledly up at the psych tech.

"We lost track of the memory," the tech explained. "Stress levels too high-"

_No shit, Sherlock,_ Tank thought, a sense of loathing overtaking her.

"-but I do think we made some progress," the doctor continued. "How do you feel?"

Tank could tell his thoughts from the rather murderous look in his eyes, though his expression was otherwise bland.

"I want to go back to my unit," Reaper said after a second. "Take all this fucking gear off me."

_And there's the clincher._

Tank rose from her seat with a sigh, absently putting another piece of crystallized ginger into her mouth as she walked out of the room. She knew that Reaper hadn't seen her, that he didn't know that she'd watched the therapy session.

Tank scowled deeply at the thought.

_If they call _that_ therapy, then I never wanna see anything under their definition of torture._

Tank sighed and passed out into the lobby, drawing her jacket tighter around her shoulders. She'd been chilled for the past few days, most likely another effect of the cancer. She inwardly swore that the first thing she was going to do once they headed on vacation that afternoon was to go to the nearest swimming pool and have a good, long soak in a hot tub.

Really, she thought, they _all_ needed the R 'n' R. Six months had passed without a vacation, six months of hard-core missions and pain and blood and sweat and tears. Tank was looking forward to this furlough...

...even if she probably wouldn't be coming back from it.

Tank entertained no hopeful thoughts about her condition. It was worsening, and she knew it. She knew that she probably had less than six months left to live.

Tank intended to spend that time with her family back in Missouri, and with Reaper. She intended to live life to its fullest until she took her dying breath.

She stopped in the middle of the lobby and absently pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. It was a typed letter from a hospital back in Missouri, and on the back of it was her own handwriting.

_Dear Mrs. Amanda Grimm,_

_We regret to inform you that on this day, June thirteenth of the year 2046, your grandfather, Daniel Halley, passed away from heat stroke at 1500 hours. Likely cause of death is over-exertion from playing golf in one-hundred and two degree heat._

_We offer you our sincerest condolences._

_Sincerely,_

_Doctor Renee Descartes_

Tank had been devastated, but even as she had sobbed into Reaper's arms she had laughed bitterly.

_I always knew Grandpa would go out in some unconventional way, doing something he liked,_ she had choked out.

That had been six weeks ago. Tank had received the letter that morning, and Reaper had come home from the failed mission to find her sitting on her bed in the infirmary, curled up as she cried. She had gotten through it eventually.

But it had raised some important questions for her. Tank had pulled out a pen the next day and begun writing on the back of the letter. She did some soul-searching, and found a list of things that she really, really wanted to do before she died.

Tank's eyes drifted to the list, written in her own sloppy hand, even as she cleared her throat of the lump that had formed in it at the memories.

_1. Laugh until I cry._

Tank hadn't scratched that one off, yet.

_2. Make John smile openly again._

Because Reaper hadn't smiled a full-hearted, open smile since her diagnosis, and he hadn't laughed since Jumper's death six weeks ago.

_3. Have a normal picnic at the park with all my family, no bad thoughts involved._

She planned to do that one second after she went on leave, after the hot tub.

_4. Visit uncle Frank and his family in Colorado._

She hadn't seen them in years, and wanted to say goodbye before she died. After all, she had been friends with her cousin Heather for a long time before Tank's mom and Heather's dad had a falling-out, and since Heather's parents had gotten a divorce. Her mother's brother, Frank, had some behavioral tendencies that Marie hadn't liked... not to mention that they'd just _clashed._

_5. Watch a sunset, then stay up all night to watch the sunrise._

Tank planned to do that with only Reaper for company, just so that she could savor his presence, his warmth, his scent, his strength, his _life_. If there was one thing that Tank wanted more than anything, it was to know that his heart was beating and that he was still drawing breath.

_6. Make love to John under the stars one more time-_

"Tank?"

Tank jumped with a gasp at the sudden voice behind her, and spun around to find the subject of her current list number standing a few feet behind her.

"Reaper!" she exclaimed, exhaling slowly to calm her racing heart. "I think you just shaved another few months off my life, there."

Reaper frowned, and stepped up to Tank, his eyes on the paper in her hands.

"What's that?" he asked. "And why are you here?"

Tank briefly pondered lying and saying that she was coming to pick him up, but she knew that it wouldn't work.

Tank sighed. "I was watching you in the therapy."

She bristled at the memory of the technicians, ignoring Reaper's disapproving frown.

"I can't _believe_ those motherfuckers!" she spat, clenching her hands and spinning away to stalk toward the door of the hospital. "They were amused! _Amused!_"

She gave an inarticulate growl of rage, tossing her hands up in the air. "Those bastards _enjoyed_ watching you writhe under that probe!"

Reaper followed behind her silently, his bad mood almost tangible.

Tank turned to glare back at the hospital as she emerged into the warm sunlight. "If I could, I'd go back in there and strangle 'em all..."

"Come on, Tank," Reaper grunted, pushing past her. "We need to pack."

Tank followed, and fumed in silence for a few more seconds, but her anger was fleeting, replaced soon by sadness.

"I wish you would talk to me," she whispered. She saw Reaper pause mid-step before he continued on. Tank didn't follow, standing in the middle of the road, clutching her jacket to her chest as an ache built in her heart and in her stomach.

"I guess," she pondered quietly, watching him walk away, "only non-Marines do that. Right? Only weaklings."

Reaper was too far away to hear her.

"Only families..."

* * *

_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own Doom._

_Okay, I lied again. And I've been SLACKING. BIG TIME. I blame Assassin's Creed and Assassin's Creed II for getting me addicted. Yes. That's what I've been doing for the past two- three?- weeks. Beating up bad guys, chasing thieves across rooftops, assassinating Templars, and womanizing with Ezio and Altaïr. I has been a berry berry bad girlie. But loving it all the while. :D_

_So I'm sorry for the lateness, but I have to say, if you haven't played those games, GO DO SO NOW. So awesome… Sigh…_

_Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, and I'm really sorry for making you all wait. This means you, __**st. elmo-lover**__, and you, __**ErikaLynne**__, and also to __**HellgirlAngel**__, who reviewed chapter 3. I'm flattered that you guys think I should continue this, though I have to admit, I'm debating on which direction to take it in. On one hand, there's the plot point I've already established with the whole "genetic memories" thing, which opens up an "Assassin's Creed" sort of option. On the other, well… We all know how Olduvai turns out. If I go that route, then I can't say whether or not Tank will be a focusing character… Hmm, what to do, what to do…? :)_

_Next chapter should (hopefully) be out by 8-2-2010, provided I get up off my lazy ass and actually UPDATE ON TIME. Thanks again for your patience, and I'm very sorry that I forgot to post._

_-__**P**__ortrait of a __**S**__cribe_


	38. 2046 AD RRTS Barracks 2000 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

_"The trees they do grow high, my love,  
The leaves they do grow green,  
And the time is gone and past, my love  
That you and I have seen . . ."  
-Traditional English Folksong, "The Trees They Do Grow High"  
_

__

**Chapter 37.**

* * *

_**2046 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 2000 hours**_

Tank shakily pulled herself up from the floor of the bathroom and flushed the toilet before rinsing her mouth out. She spat a few times to make sure that she had no more water in her mouth- it could go down the throat into the stomach and induce more vomiting- and then she left the room and left the infirmary, popping a piece of crystallized ginger into her mouth as she headed downstairs.

They were going on leave. The transporter would be there in just a little while to pick them up and take them all to the airport, if they wanted. As it was, most of the men were in the barracks getting ready to leave.

Tank's eyes immediately landed on Reaper as she descended the stairs into the squad bay, and then she looked around to observe the rest of the unit.

Reaper was stuffing a t-shirt into his seabag where he stood next to his new cot, his face unnaturally blank. He had been moved to it just a week or so before when somebody had dropped a ladder on his old one and taken the whole thing down. He looked remarkably surly.

Tank knew it was because of the psych-tech.

Mac and Destroyer were lined up in the aisle between the cots. Mac was pitching oranges the length of the room to Destroyer, who was "up to bat", so to speak. The tall African-American's teeth were bared in a ferocious expression. As Tank set foot on the cement floor, Destroyer swung and hit their latest victim, sending the orange down the aisle as a disintegrating ground ball.

Tank shook her head as it left a trail of juice in its wake.

A brief glance to Reaper told her that her husband was pondering voicing a complaint. When he finished packing a second later and went over to the gun-cleaning table in the alcove in the corner, Tank knew that he didn't feel like being a hard-ass tonight.

_Let Sarge deal with it,_ his brooding expression read. Tank sighed and withdrew her gaze from him again.

Then she rolled her eyes as she caught sight of the cardboard cutout of a naked woman wearing a catcher's mask. Portman had brought it back after their last mission. The next ball was whiffed, and hit the cutout with a wet smack. Where it hit, Tank couldn't see, but she had a good indication.

Portman was pacing next to his bunk, grumbling about transporters. Even as Tank watched, he stopped and leaned over his pack. Tank guessed, correctly, that he was checking to make sure he had remembered his condoms.

Probably for the third or fourth time, too.

Duke was lounging on his rack, an old handheld video game in his hands and a cigarette wedged between his lips. He was mumbling quietly to the screen, and Tank couldn't make out his words over the sound of the radio.

Goat was praying at his own bedside. After the mission at the methane fields, he had changed. The second he had gotten out of the shower, cleaned up from the blood and sweat of the mission, he had gone over to his locker. Tank had been appalled when he had withdrawn a bloodied canvas bag filled with human scalps. She had been somewhat relieved when he removed it from the room.

Still, she had run into the bathroom to vomit, after that.

Since that day, Goat had been doing a lot of praying. Tank didn't know whether he was shaken by the mission itself or something that'd happened during it. However, he had finally begun to wear the crucifix Tank had gotten him a few years back. In fact, she never saw him without it, lately.

Movement to her right caught her eye, and she turned to look at it.

It was somebody new- Jumper's replacement, she realized with a jolt. He must have just gotten there, probably while she had been in the infirmary bathroom puking her guts out. He was long-limbed and gangly, probably no more than nineteen years old, about six-two, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds. His buzz-cut hair was brown- it would be curly if grown out- and his eyes were green.

He was sweeping the floor with an old-fashioned broom, probably given to him by Duke in Tank's absence. He looked lost and miserable. It was this new kid who Tank approached after her study had been concluded.

"Hey," she said after clearing her throat. The kid looked up, startled, and Tank was suddenly aware of every pair of eyes in the room landing on her. Tank glanced around with a raised eyebrow.

"As you were," she drawled. "I can introduce myself without your help."

There was a small smile from Goat, and Duke laughed slightly before everybody went back to their previous activities. Tank shook her head and turned back to the kid with a smile.

"I'm Sergeant Amanda Grimm," she said, holding out her hand for the young man to shake. "You can call me Tank."

The kid smiled hesitantly as he shook her hand. "Private First Class Mark Dantalian."

"Nice to meet you," Tank said. She eyed him. "You look like a nice kid. How old are you?"

"Nineteen."

Tank nodded. "I'm twenty-six."

She glanced around the barracks. "Have they introduced themselves to you, yet?"

Mark hesitated, and then shook his head. Tank rolled her eyes and sighed before sitting down on his bunk.

"Mind if I sit here? Thanks," she said, ignoring the questioning glance he shot her. She pointed to each squad member in turn.

"That's Portman," she said. "Corporal Dean Portman, age thirty-three. We just call him Portman."

Next came Goat, and then Destroyer. "Corporal Eric Fantom, codename Goat. Age thirty-five. And there's Corporal Roark Gannon, a.k.a. Destroyer, age thirty."

Tank glanced over at Mark as she pointed to Mac and Duke. "That's Mac, and that's Duke, or Lance Corporal Gregory Schofield, age twenty-seven."

Mark cast her another inquiring look.

"Why 'Mac'?" he asked. Tank smiled.

"'Cause none of the idiots who nicknamed him could pronounce his name when he came," she said dryly, "even after he told it to them. He also likes Big Macs and baseball."

"What's his real name?"

Tank smirked. "Lance Corporal Katsuhiko Kumanosuke Takaashi," she replied, "age twenty-seven."

Mark stared at her for a second, dumbfounded. Then he shook his head and went back to his sweeping.

"I shouldn't have asked," he muttered. Tank chuckled.

"Don't worry," she said. "I can only pronounce his name because I took a semester's worth of cram school Japanese when I was on leave a few years back."

Then she pointed to Reaper. "And last, but not least, is Staff Sergeant John Grimm, age twenty-six."

Mark blinked, the broom pausing as he stilled. He scrutinized Tank for a second, and then he looked at Reaper.

"Are you two brother and sister?" he asked incredulously. Tank shuddered.

"Heavens, no!" she exclaimed, and then held up her left hand for Mark to observe. His eyebrows shot up.

"Married?" he asked, and Tank made a hushing motion with her hands.

"Yeah, but we don't generally make it too terribly obvious," she said, eyes twinkling. "Y'see, most of the guys here don't like the fact that we can occasionally sneak out for a little 'alone time' and they have to wait until furlough."

Mark blushed slightly with a quiet, nervous chuckle. Then he quieted as Tank's smile faded.

"At least, we _used_ to be able to," she murmured, her eyes taking on a faraway glaze as her thoughts drifted to her cancer. Tank absently rubbed her stomach with her right hand, feeling the deep ache in it acutely. Mark's observant eyes caught the motion.

"Are you pregnant?" he blurted. The whole room quieted but for the sound of the radio, until Tank burst out laughing.

"Fuck no!" she gasped, doubling over with her mirth. A moment later, she straightened up, wiping a tear from her eye.

"God, I haven't laughed that hard in forever!" she chuckled. "You should've seen the look on your _face!_"

Then she calmed again and looked up at the recruit with a smile, though her eyes were solemn.

"I have terminal pancreatic cancer," she explained quietly. "Most of the time I'm in too much pain to stand straight, let alone do anything of _that_ nature. I can't carry a child, and I probably never will."

"...Oh," Mark said, voice subdued. "I'm sorry for bringing it up."

Tank smiled, but it was forced. "You get used to it after a while. I don't anticipate dealing with it for too much longer, anyway."

You could have heard a pin drop, had the radio been off.

There was a second there where none of the squad made any motions at all, all of them except Reaper staring at Tank, and Tank staring at Mark. A small, warm smile was on her face and a well of bottomless sadness was in her eyes as she studied him.

Then there came the rattle of machinery, and Tank glanced over at Reaper to see that he had begun to clean his guns again. She knew then that she should never have even allowed the conversation to take that direction.

"So, how 'bout them Cards?" she asked, directing the question to Mac. Mac snorted, and the tension in the room immediately diffused.

"The Cards suck, this year," he scoffed. "The Red Sox are doing much better."

He pitched again, Destroyer swung, and the orange hit the wall above Tank's bunk to land with a wet squish on top of her seabag. Tank squawked and leapt up, darting over to scoop the fruit off of her bunk before the juice soaked into her things.

"What the _fuck_, guys?" she demanded, but her eyes were dancing with mirth. "Don't you have better things to do than make my junk smell nice?"

Mac just grinned, and Destroyer smirked a little bit.

"I don't fucking believe this shit," Portman growled from where he was pacing. He had totally ignored her.

Tank looked over at him, watched him glare at his watch before he turned the scathing look to the clock on the wall.

"Six months without a weekend, and the fuckin' transporter's five minutes late!" he complained. "That's five minutes R 'n' R I ain't never gonna get back!"

"Relax, baby," Duke said, briefly glancing up at Portman from his game- creatively called '_Galaxian_'. Duke winked at the blond man. "We're on _vacation._"

Tank shook her head as Portman scowled, stuck his hands in his pockets, and walked over to peer over Duke's shoulder at the screen of the handheld. Duke didn't even look up, his thumbs twiddling on the game's buttons.

"Why d'you play those fuckin' stupid games?" Portman asked, his too-smooth voice derisive. "They're old!"

Duke, unruffled by the proximity, shot down another digital enemy with practiced ease. "You ever play chess, Portman? Some games'll never die, and this game was _layered,_ man."

Portman snorted and walked away while Duke went back to muttering at the screen, challenging the invaders to up the ante.

Tank shook her head and remained silent while Mac tested the weight of another orange in his hand.

"Where're you going, 'Stroyer?" Mac asked as Destroyer made a couple of practice swings.

Destroyer grinned. "Grover Island, surfin'. I'm tellin' you, man, their weather is _crazy_. Thirty-foot breakers!"

Tank chuckled and inhaled deeply through her nose, taking a seat on the side of her bunk. The barracks' normal scent of sweat, leather, and boot-black had been temporarily replaced by the smell of aftershave and hair gel... not to mention fresh orange juice. It was an interesting combination, Tank silently mused.

"Where you goin', Portman?" she heard Destroyer ask. Tank regretted the question as soon as she saw the dreamy leer come over Portman's face.

"I'm goin' down to El Honto," he said, sounding like he was really looking forward to whatever it was he was going to say. "I'm gonna lock myself in a motel room with a bottle of tequila-"

He held his hand out about level with his mid-chest, and Tank inwardly groaned, knowing what was coming.

"-and three she-boys!"

She shuddered as he finished the sentence with a satisfied growl, seeing Destroyer grimace.

"You're sick, man," Duke stated, glancing up at Portman from the handheld. Tank groaned audibly.

"Sicker than _I _am," she deadpanned, "and I'm pretty damn fuckin' _sick_."

Mac pitched again, Destroyer swung, and the orange angled like a meteor across the barracks to smack wetly into the wall just above Duke's head. Duke didn't even flinch. Tank just stared at the orange when it stuck to the wall.

"_Dude_, that just ain't _right_," she said, pointing to the orange. Duke, Destroyer, and Mac followed her gaze, as did Mark, and then laughed.

"What ain't right is that we're still waiting for the fuckin' transporter," groused Portman.

"Quit whining and suck it up, you fuckin' pussy," Tank retorted without missing a beat. "You'll get your damned sodomy soon enough."

Another orange went sailing across the room and narrowly missed Goat's left ear. He caught it just before it whooshed past his head, not even looking up from his Bible. However, his ice-blue eyes landed on Portman in a chilling glare.

"I'm sick of your filth, Portman," Goat intoned quietly. Portman's face twisted into an expression that was more sneer than grin.

"He _speaks_," Portman mused as Destroyer tossed Mac another orange.

"So, Kid, where you goin'?" Duke asked. He didn't look up. The Kid paused in his brooming. Everyone except Reaper looked over at him, and the Kid cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Me?" he asked. Tank raised her eyebrows, prompting him to reply to the question. "Oh... I gotta stay here."

Portman made a bogus sound of sympathy.

"Oh. Oh, that's _tragic,_" he drawled. "Grunt's been here, like, _ninety seconds._ He ain't never been in rotation."

Tank shook her head at Portman's apathy while Destroyer fished another orange out of the bag and tossed it over to Mac.

"Sorry, Kid," Destroyer said, his bass voice only slightly sympathetic, "you don't get R 'n' R until you've at least been shot at."

"My heart fuckin' bleeds for you," Portman said, head ducked low as he shot the Kid a glare. "Sweep up, you fuckin' pussy."

Tank snorted. "That's _my_ line."

Duke clucked his tongue in disapproval of Portman's derision. "This kid was the best marksman in his entire division," he defended good-naturedly. "Don't listen to him, Kid."

"We're _all_ glad to have you here," Tank continued reassuringly. A moment passed.

"Now sweep up, you fuckin' pussy," Duke added, not looking up from his game.

Tank almost fell off her bunk with her roaring mirth, hearing everyone else laugh, as well, even Mark. Okay, so not everybody.

Reaper hadn't laughed since the last assignment and the subsequent 'treatments'.

Tank gazed over at her husband with some sadness, watching his brooding expression as he sat at the cleaning table and assembled and disassembled a light machine gun so fast his fingers blurred. Tank heard Mark give a low, admiring whistle.

"How fast, sir?" the Kid asked.

"Not fast enough," was Reaper's reply, and Tank suddenly knew that he was dwelling on the memories that the therapy had dug up. She watched in silence as he reassembled the weapon, his fingers seeming to have a life of their own.

"Looks damn fast to me, sir," the Kid said. Tank watched Reaper look over at Mark.

"Call me John, Kid," he instructed, his voice blunt. "I work for a living, just like you."

Mark smiled uncertainly. Reaper detected the hesitation. "Give it time, Kid. You'll get it."

There was a pause, only the sound of the radio and the broom in the barracks. Tank finally tossed the orange in her hand at Mac, who caught it with a faint grin and promptly decided that this victim needed a little more wailing on.

It splattered gloriously against the back wall a few seconds later.

"Nice," Tank chuckled. "That almost looked like what a human head does when I hit it with a shot from my rifle."

Destroyer raised his eyebrows at her, and he and Mac exchanged glances.

"Tank, girl," Destroyer said after a second, "your sniper rifle is the reason why we _named_ you Tank."

"That motherfucker's a fuckin' _cannon_," Portman put in with a suggestive leer. "And don't _you_ put it to good use..."

"Go fuck yourself, Portman," Tank drawled, leaning back to lounge on her bunk. "Before I decide to shove my KA-BAR up your ass and do it for you."

"Ouch," Portman hissed, affecting injury. Tank rolled her eyes, and Destroyer chose that moment to change the subject.

"What 'bout you, Reaper?" he asked, raising his bass voice so that Reaper could hear him in the alcove. "Where you going?"

Reaper didn't answer.

Everyone in the room turned to look at him. They all knew about the psych-tech and the memory therapy. They'd picked up on his mood, anyway- couldn't miss it.

You felt the burn of Reaper's bad mood like a tanning light on a bad sunburn... and Tank knew bad sunburns better than most.

Duke actually glanced up from his game, this time.

"Yeah, what's it gonna be, Reaps?" he asked. Tank smirked slightly when she saw Reaper faintly roll his eyes at the hated moniker. "An armed conflict someplace quiet?"

"Little relaxing jungle warfare?" Portman chimed in.

"Or you gonna stay here cleanin' your piece, doing push-ups?" Duke teased with a grin. Reaper paused, and then glanced at the Kid with a wink as the elder Marine picked up his rifle.

"Well you know, Duke, I thought maybe I'd drop by your mom's house, wait in line."

Tank choked on air and actually fell off her bunk this time, while the others all laughed, save for Duke and Reaper, who just stared each other down. After a few seconds, Mark noticed her convulsing on the floor. Thinking that she was having a seizure of some kind, he hurriedly came over to her and put a hand to her neck, feeling for her pulse.

Tank brushed him away, laughing so hard that she couldn't breathe.

"'M fine," she wheezed, and then she continued laughing.

When she finally calmed a moment later, she was gasping for air, the occasional chuckle escaping her. She caught Reaper's gaze as she pulled herself back up onto her bunk with a little help from the Kid, and grinned whole-heartedly at her husband for the first time in what seemed like months.

Maybe the last few months of her life wouldn't be so bad, after all.

Then she heard the ring of boots on the stairs, and looked up to see Sarge descending the stairwell.

Then again, maybe she wouldn't _have_ a few more months to live.

Tank sighed, and sat up on her bunk with a faint wince as her stomach ached. Then she watched as Sarge reached the bottom of the stairs and took one step out into the barracks. The laughter in the room ceased immediately as everybody looked at him with a mixture of dread and anticipation.

Tank heard Portman utter a muffled oath.

Something in Sarge's expression and posture clued the rest of them in to what Tank already knew was coming.

"Listen up," Sarge said, his deep voice just audible over the radio. Goat got up and flipped it off so that they could hear him better.

"Leave is canceled," Sarge announced. Tank sighed, and got to her feet with another wince, already heading for the locker room. She briefly saluted Sarge as she passed him, and he nodded in return before turning back to the men.

Tank almost, _almost_ laughed at the expressions of amazement, disgust, and wry resignation on their faces.

_Really,_ she inwardly mused, directing the thoughts to the rest of them,_ you should have expected something like this to happen._

She heard Duke laugh as she entered the locker room and started stripping out of the civvies she had been wearing. Her sensitive ears caught the ensuing conversation as first her jacket, then her tank top, and then her capris and sandals were set onto the bench in front of her locker.

"You got a problem, Duke?" Sarge asked.

"Me, Sarge?" Duke asked innocently. Tank smirked when she detected the sunny smile in her friend's voice. "Hell, no. I love my job."

A moment passed as Tank wordlessly donned her tank top and dance leggings.

"Whassup, Sarge?" she finally heard Destroyer ask.

"We got us a game. Kid, you're up."

Tank heard a faint clank, and deduced that Mark had leaned his broom against a locker.

"You're in the RRTS now, son," Sarge continued. Then his volume went up to about half his capability. "And what do we do in the RRTS?"

Tank knew what Sarge was waiting for, but she said nothing as the rest of the squad, save Goat, immediately responded: "_Pray for war!"_

Tank had been praying along different lines... more for a quick death and forgiveness than for war.

Then again, maybe this was better, she mused. Reaper hadn't been himself since the South America mission with the methane fields. She knew he'd been doubting himself and his abilities. Tank mused that he'd probably been concerned about being a so-called 'loose cannon' in the civilian community. Probably worried he'd cause a mess if he got drunk or something, knowing him.

"Fall in," she heard Sarge command, and with a sigh, Tank moved over to the corner of the locker room with the examination table and computer.

As the rest of the squad filed in behind her with various expressions of displeasure etched into their faces, Tank booted up the computer and grabbed her stethoscope, preparing to examine the first man in line. It was then that she noticed that Reaper hadn't come in with them. Tank frowned in confusion, but then brushed it off as Portman stepped up to the plate.

The examinations went quickly, and they all cleared out, even Sarge, who came in a little bit late.

The Kid was the last one in line before Tank, and even _he_ checked out alright. Then Tank looked up for Reaper.

He was... not present.

Tank's brow furrowed in concern, and she looked over at Sarge. "Sarge? Where's Reaper?"

"Reaper won't be joining us for this mission," Sarge intoned. Tank paused, and then swallowed.

"Oh," she said. "Well, you all checked out clean. Better go suit up."

Sarge nodded.

"You heard the woman!" he barked. "Suit up!"

Tank took a deep, shaky breath as she dazedly turned to the computer and entered her own stats. As she stepped onto the scale, she heard the rest of the team exit the room through the other door, which led straight up to the landing pad.

She had really wanted Reaper to be there when she died... now it looked like he wouldn't.

It was as she turned to enter in her weight- now a meager one-hundred fifteen pounds- that a hand landed on her shoulder, startling her so that she yelped and spun around.

When she saw who it was, she sighed with relief, still shaking slightly.

"Reaper!" she exhaled. "How many times do I have to tell you not to do that?"

Reaper shrugged, and there was something in his eyes that Tank couldn't name. "At least a lifetime more."

She shook her head in exasperation, and then gestured to the examination table. "Well, are you coming or not?"

"Yeah," he replied distractedly, hopping up on the table. Tank heaved a breath, putting her hands on her hips and eyeing him sternly.

"John," she started. "We got a _game_. It's gonna be balls-out, hard-core tough. You won't have time to think when we're on the mission."

She paused, staring into his distant hazel gaze. "I don't know what the fuck's got you so distracted, John, but I'm not gonna clear you for this mission if you're gonna try to go through it with a fogged head."

They were silent for a moment, and then Reaper slowly focused on her again.

"We're going to Olduvai," he said quietly. Tank froze for an instant, and then she reached for his hand.

"You sure you wanna do this?" she whispered. Reaper stared at their entwined hands for a moment, and then he raised his eyebrows slightly in a resigned expression.

"Yeah," he breathed. Tank stared at him for a second, and then she pulled away, reaching for her stethoscope.

"Okay," she murmured.

She was done with the examination in under five minutes.

"Suit up, love," she whispered, shutting down the computer. She soon joined her husband at the lockers and they suited up in silence.

As Tank strapped her submachine gun to her thigh like she always did, a sudden burst of pain from her stomach caused her to moan, and her knees gave out from the sheer agony. Reaper caught her before she could bash her head against the locker, and he lowered her to the floor, his eyes wide as he gazed down at her.

Tank could do little more than gasp through the flare-up until it finally eased a moment later.

"You okay?" Reaper asked quietly. Tank nodded, a bead of sweat sliding down her forehead.

"Fine," she wheezed. Reaper frowned at her in concern.

"Maybe you should sit this one out," he murmured. Tank took a deep breath, and then shook her head.

"No, I need to go," she said, her voice a quiet rasp. She groaned and staggered to her feet again. "This'll be my last mission, Reaper. 'M gonna give it my all."

Tank gasped when she managed to stand upright again, and then she finished tamping down the velcro on her vest. A hand on her shoulder drew her attention to Reaper's grim face.

"Don't be a deathseeker, Tank," he pleaded quietly. "I want as much time with you as I can steal."

Tank smiled shakily, and slammed her locker closed after grabbing her medical pouch.

"I know," she whispered. Then they dashed out of the locker bay, up the stairs to the helipad. Tank saw Sarge glance out before he withdrew again, and knew that he was getting ready to lift off, with or without her and Reaper.

Reaper overtook her with ease, dashing forward to stop the liftoff. Tank was grateful for him in that moment, for the simple fact that he was _there_ and that he could help support her.

Tank caught up to them and clambered into the chopper. She caught Sarge's slightly concerned glance and smiled faintly in response to it as she walked up to her assault rifle and pressed her thumb to the green pad on the handle.

"_RRTS Special Ops clearance verified. Handle ID: Tank._"

As the assault rifle spoke to her, she lifted it down and cocked it, making sure that it was working properly.

_Perfect._

"Come to momma, baby," she purred as she also took down her sniper rifle. She caught Mark ogling it as she laid it across her lap.

Tank smirked at him when he met her gaze.

"_RRTS Special Ops clearance verified. Handle ID: Reaper._"

Reaper sat down next to her and glanced into her eyes. Tank smiled at him and focused on loading her rifle.

"Take us up!" Sarge called. Tank absently strapped herself in.

The chopper lifted off, carrying them toward the Ark Facility in Papoose Lake, Nevada.

"You know, Kid, it's funny." Tank glanced over to see Portman leaning conspiratorially toward Mark. "Couple of days ago I told Sarge I could use a little pussy. Next day, he brought you onto the team."

Tank scowled at the slight, but the chink of a loading rifle next to her brought her attention over to her husband.

"Don't give me an excuse, Portman," Reaper called over the noise of the chopper. His glare was sub-zero as he turned it on Portman. "No one here'll miss you."

Tank smirked slightly and continued with her task.

A few minutes into the flight, Tank finished loading her sniper rifle, and laid it across her lap with her assault rifle. Then she sat back, reached into her vest, and pulled out a pack of Wrigley's Doublemint chewing gum.

"I got gum," she announced as the chopper hit a little bit of turbulence. "Anybody want some?"

Sarge chuckled and grinned at her, leaning forward to take a piece.

"Deja vu, much?" he asked. Tank smiled, but it was subdued.

"Yeah," she said. "'Cept this time I'm probably gonna be the one in Hound and Indian's position."

Sarge frowned slightly, but he nodded in understanding.

Tank wasn't going to come back from this mission alive.

That was all there was to it.

Tank turned to Reaper and offered him a stick. He took one with a pained expression, his eyes tight with sorrow. Tank quirked an eyebrow questioningly, wordlessly asking him if he was okay.

Reaper just shrugged and turned away as he stuck the piece of gum in his mouth.

Destroyer already had a piece in his mouth. Mac accepted, as did Goat, Mark, and Duke. Portman stared at her hand for a second.

"Last time you're gonna offer me a piece, innit?" It was more of a statement. Tank smiled at him, and it was tired and sad. She gave him an Air Force salute.

"'Fraid it is, partner," she said nonchalantly. "Last pack, anyway. There's a stick for you and a stick for me. Figured I'd try to share."

Portman scoffed, but took one of them nonetheless. Tank smiled knowingly as he unwrapped it and stuck the gum in his mouth with a grimace.

Then she unwrapped her own piece, the last in the pack. She put it in her mouth, and bit down with relish, leaning her head back against the back of her seat.

A few minutes passed in silence, and Tank gradually centered herself, calming herself before the game.

Then she heard Sarge get up, and opened her eyes, completely calm, ignoring the ache in her belly as she bent forward for a better view.

"Look in!" Sarge shouted. Everybody's attention focused on him as he slapped a memory stick into the drive of the briefing console on the bulkhead. "This is what we've got from Simcom."

He turned the volume all the way up so that they could hear over the racket made by the chopper blades, the comm chatter from up front, and the sound of the wind outside.

The screen flashed, and Tank watched as the face of an elderly man appeared on the VDU. Tank thought he looked a bit... _rat-like_.

"_This is Doctor Carmack at Classified Research, Olduvai, ID 6627,_" the man said. "_We've had a level-five breach, implementing quarantine procedures now!_"

Tank scrutinized the screen carefully, taking in everything. Doctor Carmack seemed terrified, and he kept glancing over his shoulder at something either off-screen, or...

_Behind that blast door past his left ear,_ Tank realized, her eyes narrowing. There came the sound of a distant pounding, and she realized with a jolt that the door was caving in.

"_I repeat, implement level-five breach quarantine procedures now!_" he said. He glanced over his shoulder again, and Tank heard a horrible screeching sound that was barely audible over the racket of the chopper. She saw the door over the doctor's shoulder buckle, and then tear open.

Tank glimpsed a huge, dark, hulking silhouette in the doorway before the picture dissolved into snowy static.

She was barely aware of the men exchanging glances around her, her wide eyes still fixed on the screen. Tank only snapped out of her stupor when Sarge spoke again.

"We got a quarantine procedure on Olduvai," he said.

_Thank you, Captain Obvious..._

"They sent that message before the research team stopped responding to communications."

"Olduvai...?" Portman mused. Sarge nodded at him.

"Three and a half hours ago," he said. "UAC has shut down the lab. We go up there, locate the team, eliminate the threat, and secure the facility."

Tank opened her mouth to speak, but she was interrupted by Mark.

"What threat?" he asked. Tank could have slapped herself.

"Goes like this, see," Duke said, leaning over Goat to talk to Mark. "If it's tryin' to kill you, it's a threat."

Tank really did slap herself, this time.

Shaking her head and lowering her hand, she turned to Sarge, her expression serious. "Sarge."

Sarge looked over at her and gave her his full attention when he saw the grave look in her eye. "What is it?"

Tank noticed that none of the others were paying attention, but brushed it off.

"Sarge, did you see what was happening over Carmack's shoulder?" she asked. Sarge blinked.

"I was a bit more focused on his face, Tank," he deadpanned.

"Something tore through that door behind him," Tank stated solemnly, frowning. "I saw its silhouette before the camera cut out."

She paused, a disturbing thought making its way through her head. "It didn't have any tools, Sarge, nothing that could have cut through that door... except its own brute strength."

Sarge sat back again, looking at her as though in a new light. "What're you saying, Tank?"

Tank took a deep breath, and glanced at the bulkhead again. "Sarge, I'm not so sure that what we're going to be dealing with is even _human_."

Sarge recoiled in surprise before he chuckled and shook his head.

"What? Like an alien?" he asked, and then shook his head again. "Tank, be serious."

"I _am_ being serious, Sarge!" she hissed. Why wasn't he listening to her? "I'm being more serious than I have been in years! I _saw_ something on that disc, something _ripped through the door_ and it didn't do it with anything other than its _bare hands!_"

But Sarge just brushed her off with a shake of the head, and Tank gave up on trying to make her point. She heaved an exasperated breath and sat back to rest.

Several long moments passed, Tank lost in her thoughts.

Then she suddenly realized something, and opened her eyes to look over at Mark.

"Hey, Mark," she called over the noise of the chopper. Mark looked up at her.

"Yeah?" he returned. Tank nodded at the handheld semiautomatics that he had laid across his lap.

"What's your ID?" she asked. Mark rolled his eyes.

"She called me 'The Kid'," he replied. Tank smiled and closed her eyes again. She rested her head back against the wall of the chopper and settled in for the remainder of the ride.

However, a quiet question from Sarge caught her attention. Tank kept her eyes closed, giving them their privacy.

"How long's it been?"

There was a distinct pause. Then, to her surprise, Reaper was the one who answered, his voice barely audible to her above the racket of the chopper.

"Ten years."

"You sure she's even still there?" Sarge was being persistent, this time.

Tank could almost feel the ice in Reaper's voice when he replied, "You gotta face your demons sometime."

A chill ran down her spine at that statement, and then-

_A flash, a vision of falling, screaming men, falling onto rocks, onto a mountainside, blood splattering the stones, ice shattering, people screaming, crimson streaking over her face, hands, body, slicking back her hair-_

Tank jerked upright with a gasp, wide-eyed and blind as her chest heaved.

"I want this spit and polish, no bullshit!" Sarge was saying. As he continued to bark out orders, Tank felt Reaper lay a hand on her arm, and she looked over at him, her eyes unseeing.

"Tank?"

_"Nuane?" His voice like soft animal skins, richer than honey, deeper than the depths of the sea, his hair such a pale color, nut-brown instead of black, his haunting eyes as green as the summer grass-_

"Tank!"

_"Two wolves are fighting in every man's heart. One is love, the other is hate."_

_"Which one wins?"_

_"The one you feed the most."_

"Tank! Snap out of it!"

_A clang of stone against metal, she screamed his name, watched him fall, and then suddenly something grabbed her, a rough voice saying something in a language she didn't understand, and suddenly there was a shower of blood and he was standing over her, the dragon-man's head clutched in his strong fingers-_

A harsh slap turned her face to the side, and Tank sucked in a breath, her chest heaving. Two hands turned her back to face Reaper, who was looking into her face with worry in his eyes.

_His face was carefully expressionless, but she could see the profound worry and love in his green eyes as he stared at her, threw the coat around her shoulders, and explained to her what he knew about the dragon-men, their home, and their ignorance-_

"Tank, what is it? What do you see?"

"I see death," Tank whispered. "I see death... by ice and by sword and by fall..."

_"If you dream of death, there will be life..."_

"There's darkness, and traps that spring from above and below..."

_"And if you dream of life, there will be death..."_

"It's the memories," she breathed, her eyes still wide and unseeing even as Reaper peered into her own brandy-brown gaze.

"What's going on?" Sarge demanded. Tank gradually became dimly aware of the fact that he was standing to her right.

"I don't know," Reaper murmured, and Tank closed her eyes, allowing the memories to come.

"During the Siberia mission she just started seeing these images," she heard Reaper explain. "Visions, almost, 'cause they weren't hers, and she says they're too real to be imagined."

_A tiny baby, laying in her arms, pale hair and skin and eyes just like his father-_

"A child," Tank breathed. Reaper's voice halted at the sound.

_He staggered into the camp, bloody, broken, and she barely had time to catch him as his knees gave out, and they simply held each other for a while, glad that they were alive-_

"Blood, broken bones..."

_A single blow from his sword removed the man's head from his body, and then another swing parted another dragon-man from his arm-_

"Shorn limbs, heads rolling..."

_She was sliding, and she couldn't stop, and she was falling, falling, until he caught her and pulled her to safety-_

"I'm falling off of a mountainside..."

_And then he was walking away, clothed in skins, his hair blowing in the wind and the shield of a dragon-man strapped to his back along with the metal sword that he had always possessed, and somehow, she knew that he would never return-_

"Abandonment..."

_A huge figure, larger than any human she had ever seen, towered over her, its flesh bare, rotting and corded, its eyes beady, the fangs in its barely-humanoid face arrow-sharp and shining, and then something cut through its neck and he picked her and her baby up and they ran, ran, _ran-

Tank sucked in a sharp breath and blinked rapidly as the images suddenly stopped coming, and she suddenly found herself staring into Reaper's hazel eyes. Those green, beautiful, haunting eyes that she remembered as easily in her ages-old recollections as she did in the ones of her recent past.

"You called me Nuane," Tank whispered. Reaper frowned.

"What?" he asked. "What are you talking about? I didn't say anything."

"I saw you," she breathed. "Long hair, pale like the nuts we gathered in the summer, green eyes like the grass. Called me Nuane. You were... You were Ghost, because you were lighter in color than the rest of us, but darker in heart..."

Realization crossed Reaper's face. "You're talking from the visions."

"Visions?" Tank asked, dazed. "Memories. Memories, buried in my blood since eons long past. Monsters, attackers from above and from below. Dream of life, there'll be death, dream of death, there will be life..."

And then suddenly it was like somebody lifted a veil from her eyes, and she _knew_ even as she broke free from the stupor she had been engulfed in.

"John?" she queried, seeing him staring at her. "John? What's wrong? What happened?"

Reaper blinked a few times, and Tank looked around to see everybody staring at her as though she had just grown another head.

Tank frowned and pulled away from Reaper, unbuckling her harness and standing up so that she could put her hands on her hips.

"What?" she asked, feeling the jolt as the chopper set down. "Do I have something on my second head?"

The Kid blinked at her. "Second-?"

Tank gave an inarticulate cry of exasperation, tossing her hands into the air. "Never mind!"

She turned and picked up her guns to sling the sniper rifle across her chest as she braced the assault rifle against her shoulder.

"C'mon, ya pussies, we got a game to play!" she exclaimed. The men exchanged glances before they followed behind her.

Tank was the first one out of the chopper, followed by Reaper and Portman and then the rest of them all the way down to Sarge. The icy glow of the prop wash was accented by the cold bite of the air, and Tank's breath steamed as she fell into formation with the rest of the men, Goat to her right and emptiness to her left.

There was nothing out there save the landing lights and the distant sparkle of the city's skyline.

A second passed, and then two, and suddenly Tank became aware of a rumbling beneath her feet.

"What-?" she gasped, and then cut herself off when a block of solid steel rose out of the ground before them, illuminated. It reached almost twenty feet up from what, just seconds ago, had been an empty field.

"Holy shit," Tank heard the Kid blurt.

"Double-time!" Sarge barked. "We're movin' out!"

Tank managed to get her thoughts together in time to follow Goat out in formation toward the structure, which split in half as they approached to reveal an elevator leading below the surface.

Tank swallowed as they entered the elevator, feeling suddenly nervous. They had to wait a second as the Kid caught up. Tank looked away from him, toward Reaper, as he and Portman entered the shaft with the rest of them after securing the door.

"You hesitate, people die," Sarge said to the Kid behind her. Tank could almost feel the tension as the Kid nodded.

The doors eased shut, and the elevator dropped, like a body falling from a cliffside.

Tank closed her eyes against that image as they shot downwards, fourteen levels, thirteen, twelve...

* * *

_**Disclaimer:**_ _I don't own Doom or any affiliated items, characters, or locations._

_This chapter is brought to you by my WORKING INTERNET CONNECTION. Ergh. Last week, my internet crashed for the majority of the week, and so I was unable to post this chapter (ironically, one of my longer chapters despite its one-section status). I AM SO SORRY FOR THAT. At any rate, here's this chapter (much of the dialogue was taken verbatim from both the book and movie), and next, we arrive at Olduvai. I do hope you all won't kill me, but really, it makes no difference either way. I finished this story months ago, and really, the only reason why things aren't coming on time lately is because of either my own forgetfulness/laziness or because of my faulty internet connection._

_Ahem. Rant over._

_On another note, I'm estimating this story to end at around chapter 41 or 42, depending on how I divide up the chapters. Yes, Olduvai is going to go quickly…_

_A huge thank you goes to those of you who reviewed the last chapter: __**angel19872006**__**, **__**Hime4life**__**, **__and __**Crye 4 Me**__. You guys are awesome, and your reviews really made my week. Hugs to you all!_

_Next chapter should be posted 8-16-10, if all goes well._

_-__**P**__ortrait of a __**S**__cribe_


	39. 2046 AD Papoose Lake Nevada 2350 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_Let's go, little brother! It's beginning."  
–Herger, __The 13__th__ Warrior__  
_

__

**Chapter 38.**

* * *

_**2046 A.D. - Ark Facility, Papoose Lake, Nevada - 2350 hours**_

The first thing that Tank saw when she stepped out of the elevator was a short hallway, opening up into an atrium with more halls branching off of it. Following Sarge's lead down the hallway, Tank took note of the industrial look to the place and the people who were milling about.

Obviously, UAC hadn't deemed it necessary to evacuate their personnel... or to tell them what was going on.

"Sandford Crosby, UAC public relations," said a tenor voice to Tank's right. She looked over to see a small man, about her own height of five foot six, approaching them. She watched as he held out his hand to Sarge.

_Pussy_, Tank thought caustically, _Sarge isn't desperate enough to shake your hand._

The man seemed to sense that, seeing as he withdrew his hand shortly afterward when Sarge just glared at him.

"If you'll follow me," Crosby said, and then turned and led them down another hallway.

"How many people you got up there?" Sarge asked as they turned a corner. Truthfully, Tank had been wondering that, herself.

"UAC employs eighty-five permanent research staff on Olduvai," Crosby replied, not missing a beat. Tank could have asked another question, but at that moment they crossed out of the hallway and into a room relatively devoid of people.

Tank glanced around, taking in her surroundings. The room was about the size of a high-school gym, and about two stories tall from floor to ceiling. It was roughly circular in shape, with pillars dividing the circumference of the room at calculated intervals. In the center of the room was a platform, lit from beneath.

A small, globe-like object was set into the center of the floor of the platform. Tank knew instinctively what it was, having heard about it a million and one times.

_The Ark._

Her hunch was confirmed a second later.

"Welcome to the Ark, gentlemen," Crosby said. His eyes brushed over Tank, and she glared at him sharply, preventing him from saying anything about her own gender. The diminutive man swallowed and led the Marines around the center so that they were spaced at regular intervals around the Ark.

"Keep your distance from the core, or you might get sucked in," Crosby instructed, his words of warning falling annoyingly on Tank's ears.

Tank heard the Kid ask if Goat had ever done this before, and she also heard Goat's reply.

"Hope you had a good dinner, Kid," Duke added as he came around Tank, and she realized, with a start, why he'd said that.

_Not_ comforting.

Apparently, there was a good chance that they would be revisiting their last meal. Tank was suddenly glad that there wasn't much left in her stomach to be thrown up.

Tank felt Reaper stop next to her- it seemed he was going to be keeping a close eye on her for the duration of the mission. She could feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

Tank looked over at Sarge.

"Soon as we go through, I need you to shut down the surface elevator here," Sarge instructed Crosby. "Make sure we get the standard quarantine of six hours."

Crosby nodded, standing back from the core. "Ready to proceed."

Tank wasn't sure what to expect from something that the scientists had deemed 'The Ark', but when a bubble of what appeared to be water rose out of the floor and a countdown started, a bolt of trepidation flew through her.

Tank took a deep breath, missing the glance exchanged between Sarge and Reaper. She was about to step forward when Reaper moved first. Tank decided to stay back, and watch and learn from someone who'd done it before.

Tank watched as her husband hugged his assault rifle close to his chest, holding it tightly. He stopped about a foot away from the Ark. Then they were left to wait until the countdown finished. When the numbers reached zero, Reaper closed his eyes and leaned forward. Tank gasped as he was sucked into the ball and it disappeared in a flash of light.

Reaper was gone! Gone! Tank didn't know what to think except for that. She suddenly felt a jolt of fear, and her stomach started cramping again. Tank pushed it away, however, and set her features in a scowl, determined to surpass this obstacle as she had so many others.

After all, if it killed her, then it would only accelerate the inevitable.

She stepped forward.

Tank knew immediately when she entered its range. It felt like stepping into water torture. One instant, there was a sensation of icy cold that washed over her skin, and then the next instant, she felt like she would go up in a blaze because it was so hot.

Tank's breath began to come short and beads of sweat broke out on her forehead.

The orb appeared in front of her, floating up oh-so-innocuously. It was really quite beautiful, if she thought about it. Tank clutched her assault rifle close to her, double-checked the straps on her sniper rifle and medical pouch.

The countdown began.

_Five..._

Tank took a deep breath, and began to pray.

_Four..._

"Lord, please let me get through this in one piece," she whispered, too quietly for anyone else to hear.

_Three..._

Her grip on the rifle tightened as a flare of pain lashed through her abdomen.

_Two..._

Tank crumpled slightly as the agony became too much.

_One..._

She gasped and straightened, knowing that she had to make it through the Ark.

_Zero..._

Tank closed her eyes, raised her face, and met her fate head-on.

The first thing she felt was a jerk on her head, then on the rest of her body, and then a sensation of unbearable pain, of being ripped apart at the seams and being squeezed through a sive. Then she felt a crushing pressure, compressing her whole body from all around her, heard a riot of sounds, roaring, whispering, then deafening silence. Faces, images flashed past her. Tank thought, for a brief instant, that she saw her grandfathers, her grandmothers, all screaming at her _Don't go, don't do it!_ and then she was jerked away from them, jerked in all directions. She came face to face with an inhuman creature, its flesh rotting, scabrous, as though it had been skinned alive; it had membranes where its eyes should have been, and no nose.

Then it was gone, and she felt a myriad of other sensations, all intermingled with the constant noise and impossible, not-real colors: the touch of a rough, calloused hand, the kick of a rifle against her shoulder, the pain of a gunshot wound in her thigh, the brush of warm, soft lips against her mouth, ribs breaking under a punch, warm blood flowing over her hands as she treated a wound, throat parched from severe dehydration.

Her stomach lurched.

Then she hit solid ground again, the impact from her left shoulder hitting the cold floor jolting her whole body. Her assault rifle was driven into her gut.

Then a pair of hands pulled her away from the center. Tank managed to blink open bleary, watering eyes in order to see where she was crawling, but she didn't make it very far before her stomach lurched again.

Tank doubled over, retching violently.

By the time that she finished, Tank's skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and her eyes were streaming. Her nose burned, her head felt light, and her stomach was cramping horribly.

Tank groaned and allowed Reaper to pull her to her feet.

Reaper drew Tank's arm over his shoulder, supporting her. Tank leaned heavily on her husband, her free hand clutching her assault rifle as though it was a lifeline, and she bent forward slightly to ease the burning agony in her midsection.

"You okay?" Reaper asked her softly. Tank gasped a few times, feeling her bangs stick to her face. Then she grimaced and nodded.

"I will be," she wheezed. She let go of her assault rifle in favor of wiping her face off. Reaper just squeezed her waist and held on to her as Duke came through, and then Destroyer, shortly followed by Sarge, then Goat, the Kid, Mac, and finally Portman.

The Kid was sick as soon as he arrived, and Portman had the same problem, bile dripping from his lips as he approached the rest of the squad. If Tank had been able to breathe properly through her nose, she probably would have gagged again. As it was, she managed to stand straight on her own and reach into her vest for the vial of crystallized ginger that she consistently kept on her person since her diagnosis.

Reaper eyed her as she popped a piece of the substance into her mouth.

"What's that?" he asked. Tank blinked, finally able to stand straight as the flare-up wore off, and glanced at the vial in her hand. She extended it to Reaper.

"Crystallized ginger," she explained around the ginger in her mouth as he took it and sniffed it carefully. "Home remedy for nausea and vomiting. Highly recommended for motion sickness and digestive upsets."

Reaper raised his eyebrows briefly, an inquiring look. Tank gave him an Air Force salute.

"Been using it for years," she intoned. "It's harmless."

Reaper hummed quietly, popped a piece into his mouth, and handed it back to her.

"Why we gotta come all this way?" Portman complained shakily as he joined the rest of them. "Why can't the UAC rent-a-cops take care of this bullshit?"

"Is it always that rough?" the Kid asked as he got to his feet, wiping his mouth. He still looked a bit green around the gills. Tank handed him a piece of ginger, and he put it in his mouth after glancing at her. He grimaced a little at the taste.

"Chew," Tank instructed gently. An expression of relief came to his face a second after he started.

"Believe me, it used to be a lot rougher," said a voice from behind them. "There was a time when Ark travel was susceptible to... let's say 'major turbulance'."

The squad turned as one to face the speaker.

He was a man who looked to be in his mid to late thirties, with dark brown hair and sky-blue eyes. He had his arms crossed, but what caught Tank's eyes were not his facial features, but rather the engine and wheels that extended down below the line of his shirt in place of his legs.

"What's he mean?" the Kid asked Reaper quietly. Tank saw Reaper take an overly-patient breath.

"He means that _he_ went to one galaxy, his ass went to another," he replied, and Tank stifled a snicker at the absurd imagery.

"Call it a slight miscalculation," the man drawled, voice forcibly light. Tank caught Sarge leaning over slightly to examine the contraption. "Believe it or not, UAC _does_ make the odd _tiny_ mistake."

He nodded. "Marcus Pinzerowsky. You call me Pinky."

Pinky handed Sarge a fistful of metal access cards hanging on chains, to wear around their necks.

"Access chips for the security doors," he explained. "Follow me."

He turned, the gears in his wheelchair whirring as it moved, and he led the Marines over to a panel. Tank double-checked the killcams on the barrels of her rifles, glancing over her shoulder at her sniper rifle to make sure it was all still there and functioning.

_All clear, Houston, we are ready for lift-off,_ she thought.

As Pinky stopped behind the console and began to push a few buttons, Sarge asked, "Where are the personnel who aren't locked down in the lab?"

"In the atrium," Pinky answered simply. Tank exchanged a glance with Reaper, who was to her left.

"Pinky, put us up," Sarge said after a moment.

"Activating remote personal surveillance," Pinky announced. He hit a few more buttons.

"Circle up, men," Sarge ordered. Tank fell into position, Reaper to her right and Sarge to her left. "On my three. One, two, three."

They all raised their rifles, directing them to the person at their left.

"Killcams up and running," Pinky confirmed. Tank knew that he was looking at the computer screens.

Killcams were a nifty little invention developed back in the early 2000s. They were a tiny camera that could see in infrared, and attached to the muzzle of the gun. If the user had the proper visor to go with it, then the killcam could be linked to the glasses and the user could see what he or she was firing at without having to physically look at it.

Needless to say, this had come in very handy when you didn't want to get shot trying to shoot somebody else.

"Holy shit," Pinky muttered. Tank and the rest of the Marines looked over at him to see him glance up at Tank. "Tank, is it? You got, like, three killcams on you!"

"I have three guns," Tank deadpanned. "Assault rifle, sniper rifle, submachine gun. Get used to it."

"Right. You'll be using the first and last the most, right?"

"Yes, if it comes to blows."

After the confirmation, the Marines all lowered their guns again to a safer position. Sarge gazed around at the troops, and Tank briefly glanced around.

_Which of us aside from me won't make it back from this mission?_

"People, this room is a code red," Sarge explained, "which means no one gets in without our permission. It stays ours at _all costs_."

Sarge turned to Mac. "Mac, stay here with our friend and secure the door."

Mac scowled, but nodded, and then Sarge turned to the Ark door. Tank and the others fell in behind him, holding their rifles at the ready. She flipped on her comm and stuck the headset into her ear as she walked.

Tank took a deep breath. The ever-present agony in her stomach faded some as her adrenaline began to kick in. Her focus sharpened, her breathing rate accelerated, her pulse quickened. This was what she lived for.

This was what she would die for.

"Men," Sarge barked, "on me. Let's move out."

And so the order was given, and Tank stepped forward with confidence into the last hours of her life.

"Open the door," Sarge ordered as they reached the man who was manning the door. He did as he was told without a complaint or word, and pressed a button on a panel. The Ark door rolled aside easily. Tank caught a glimpse of it as she passed through.

It was a foot and a half of solid ferrosteel, an alloy that had been developed in the early 2020s. Stronger than titanium but a bitch to produce, it was reserved mainly for specialized equipment and blast doors. Tank felt a brief flash of mixed trepidation and admiration.

Then they were through, and Mac closed and sealed the door behind them.

Sarge led them down the hall and up a flight of stairs into the atrium. Tank was appalled to see civilians milling about.

_Why haven't they been evacuated?_ she wondered fleetingly. Then she shook it off and continued on, flanking Reaper.

"Who called in the military?" she heard a man ask as she breezed by, and then she heard the cry of a young girl pointing out the Marines to her mother.

_They don't know, yet,_ Tank thought with some horror. After all, any good Marine knew that it was not curiosity, but rather ignorance, that got people killed. Tank just hoped that such wouldn't be the case, this time around.

A man approached Sarge as the group halted in the middle of the atrium.

"Lieutenant Hunegs, UAC Security Officer," he introduced himself. "When can I start evacuating people out through the Ark?"

"We're at a level five quarantine," Sarge replied. His voice held an edge in it that didn't permit argument. "Nobody goes anywhere."

Tank was rather focused on keeping her eyes peeled, so naturally, she was one of the first to notice as Portman parted from the group, heading toward a cluster of women a few yards away.

"Ladies," Tank heard him say, "we're at a level five quarantine, so I'm just gonna have to strip-search you girls..."

"No way," one of them said while the others laughed in an 'as-if' fashion. Portman, however, trailed off, and Tank glanced over at him to see what had caught his attention.

A woman with honey-blond hair, wide hazel eyes, and full, red lips had descended the stairs behind the group of women, her blouse covered with a light jacket and her hair done up in a stylishly messy bun.

She was breathtakingly beautiful.

With a start, Tank realized who she was, even as Portman began to repeat his cheesy pickup line to her.

"Portman!" Sarge barked. Portman immediately backed off, an expression of displeasure coming to his face, and the woman continued on to stand in front of the group of Marines, unruffled. Hunegs gestured to the woman.

"Sergeant, this is Doctor Samantha Grimm, the UAC science officer assigned to retrieve data from the lab," he said.

Tank just allowed her gaze to drift back to her surroundings, unperturbed by the announcement.

"Sergeant," Sam greeted with a nod to Sarge.

"Doctor Grimm," Sarge returned. Then Tank glanced back in time to see Sam's eyes drift to Reaper.

"Hello, John," she said, her voice calm and relatively uninflected.

"Hello, Samantha," Reaper returned. Tank, from her vantage point, could see the way his grip on his rifle tightened just the slightest bit.

_Fuck, when he said they'd had a falling-out, he wasn't kidding!_ Tank thought incredulously as she observed the frostiness between the twins. _In fact, I'm starting to think it was an understatement!_

Duke, on the other hand, cast Sam an appreciative glance up and down. "Hel-_lo_, Sa_man_tha!"

He waggled his eyebrows. Sam just brushed him off disinterestedly.

Tank and Sarge both shot him sharp warning looks, and Duke backed off. Tank felt more than heard Reaper take a breath, and quickly prayed that he wouldn't cause trouble by letting his personal baggage get in the way.

"Sarge, this operation is a code red," Reaper observed.

Tank sighed. _And so pride goeth before a fall..._

"We really don't have room for passengers," he concluded disinterestedly, ignorant of Tank's thoughts. Tank nudged him hard in the ribs.

"It wasn't curiosity that killed the cat, Reaper," she hissed. Reaper stubbornly ignored her.

"Excuse me, _Sergeant,_ but I have orders to retrieve data from three servers," Sam protested, shooting Reaper a determined glare. "Physical anthropology, forensic archaeology, and molecular genetics."

_Uh-oh, here it comes,_ Tank inwardly groaned, knowing that Reaper wouldn't back down from a challenge to his authority like that.

"With respect, _Doctor, _this is a military operation," he stated. _Bingo._ "We really aren't here to retrieve your science homework."

Tank inwardly slapped herself. _It's worse than I thought._

She could see Sarge getting annoyed, and she knew that if Reaper didn't shut up soon, then he was likely to find himself switching places with Mac on babysitting duty, or worse.

"Look, I've got an idea," Sam said, false enthusiasm coloring her tone. "Why don't you ask your CO what your orders are?"

_Smart move, Sam,_ Tank thought. _That'll put John in his place._

The whole squad turned to look at Sarge, and Tank was slightly surprised to see that Sarge looked faintly uncomfortable.

_I would, too, if I was suddenly put on the spot like that,_ Tank mused. _Especially getting dragged into a catfight between two estranged, bull-headed siblings with egos the size of Alaska! Sheesh!_

"To contain and neutralize the threat," Sarge began, pushing past his discomfort to relay the orders, "protect the civilians, and retrieve..." He paused. "...retrieve UAC property."

Tank saw Reaper shake his head disbelievingly, saw him briefly roll his eyes in a 'Why me?' manner. Obviously, this wasn't the best way for him to start the mission.

"We done here?" Sam asked promptly, all business. "'Cause I've got a job to do. If you'll follow me?"

_Checkmate._

Tank sighed as she followed after the other woman. _I haven't seen the end of this sibling rivalry, yet..._

"You chose this, Reaper," Sarge muttered, falling in beside Reaper as they walked. "Is this gonna spoil my day?"

Reaper's words were clipped and cold as he replied, "No, sir."

Sarge walked away, satisfied, only to be replaced by Duke as Tank shifted to fill the gap left by Sarge.

"_Tell_ me you didn't let a fine piece of ass like that get away from you, Reaper," Duke pleaded quietly, though he was still rather audible even over the noise of the atrium.

Tank could have slapped herself, only belatedly realizing that nobody had ever explained the nature of her and Reaper's relationship to her friend.

But Reaper had it handled. Cold, but handled.

"She's my sister," he intoned flatly, glaring at his surroundings.

"No shit?" Duke prodded, his features lighting up. Tank rolled her eyes and maneuvered herself between Reaper and Duke.

"Keep it in your pants, dickhead," Tank muttered to Duke, lightly shouldering him away.

"Don't do this again, man," Destroyer pleaded as Duke moved off, relatively unaffected by the shove. Duke affected an amused look as they all headed up the stairs and into another hallway.

"Do what?" he asked innocently. Destroyer just rolled his eyes.

Tank sighed, absently listening to the conversation that Portman and Sarge had initiated with Sam up ahead.

"How many were inside when the lab shut down?" she heard Sarge ask.

"Only Doctor Carmack's team," Sam replied. Tank got a strange feeling of unreality as she suddenly realized that she was listening to a conversation between her commanding officer and her sister-in-law, whom she hadn't seen since they were ten.

_Surreal._

"That's six people," Sam continued. "In one of the carbon dating labs, there was an internal phone left off the hook."

Sarge and Tank both caught the hint of anxiety in her expression. Tank felt the urge to ask a question, but she kept silent, knowing that her place was not to interrogate, but to fight. Sarge would hopefully glean as much information out of Sam as he could to better prepare them for whatever they might face.

"Did you get anything off of it?" asked Reaper. They all halted outside of the airlock door, waiting, and Sam turned to Hunegs. The man held up a voice recorder and pressed 'play'.

Immediately, the sound of terrified screams flowed out of the tiny device, screams that Tank had never heard the like of before, even during hostage situations. No, these screams were something more primeval than pure horror, something that went past fear. Underneath those were a series of low, animalistic growls, too deep to be anything human and definitely too low to be from an animal.

A chill ran down Tank's spine. _Unnatural, that's what it is._

Tank exchanged glances with Reaper, wondering if he'd heard it, as well. His grim expression told her that he had.

"Open the door," Sarge ordered, pushing past the unease that came from the screams. Sam did as she was told, and Portman and Goat entered the airlock, chemical scanners held out in front of them.

"Magnesium, chromium, lead," Portman listed off, staring at the scanner. "It's all normal."

"All clear," Goat called. The rest of the squad plus Sam piled into the airlock, and then she closed and sealed it behind them. The airlock was about seven feet by seven feet, just large enough to fit the lot of them in there comfortably.

Sarge turned to look at the VDU mounted on the wall. "Pinky, give us a schematic."

"_Uploading to you now,_" Pinky returned an instant later, his voice slightly tinny over the comms. The screen flipped on a second later, scrambling a little bit before solidifying into a map of the complex.

"_Carmack's lab is isolated from the rest of the facility,_" Pinky explained. Tank watched as sections of the map were methodically highlighted. "_The airlock is the only way in or out._"

_Good,_ Tank thought. _We can trap the problem in the lab complex. Less risk, less area to search._

"Goat, Portman: Genetics," she heard Sarge say, and turned to look at him after affixing the complex's layout in her head. Where would he put her?

"Kid, Destroyer, check out Carmack's office, where he sent the mayday from," Sarge continued. He glanced between Tank and Reaper, and for an instant, Tank was afraid that he would split them up.

"Reaper, Tank, you escort Doctor Grimm on her salvage op, keep her safe," he ordered at last, and Tank breathed a silent sigh of relief. She _really_ didn't want to be separated from her husband, not with tensions the way they were.

"Duke and I will take the weapons lab, make sure everything's secure. Be safe, gentlemen." He nodded at Goat. "Portman, Goat. On you."

Goat didn't hesitate in opening the airlock door opposite the one they had come in from, and it swung outward with a hiss. He and Portman cleared the hallway before the rest of them emerged, their rifles out and ready.

Tank started to head off with Reaper and Sam. On her way out, she heard Portman mutter, "Twenty bucks says this ain't nothin' more than a disgruntled employee with a gun."

Tank shivered. _I'd take you up on that bet if I wasn't gonna die in the next few hours._

Then they left the rest of the squad behind, Sam between the two Marines, leading, with Reaper just a half an inch behind her and Tank covering their six. As they came up to the first room off the hall, Tank covered the area while Reaper cleared the room. He crossed the doorframe in fluorescent marker after he finished, and they moved on.

Five more rooms later, Sam moved ahead toward a door.

"That it?" Tank asked. Sam jumped slightly, startled by the sound of Tank's voice.

"Yes," Sam replied after she recovered. "Yes, this is the archaeological spectrography lab."

Tank glanced at Reaper, and nodded. "On you, Reaper. Keep your eyes everywhere."

Reaper's look told her he understood as he unlocked the door and it hissed open. Tank turned to cover their six again, her eyes flicking all over the empty hallway, even up into the support beams above.

After all, she and Reaper had hidden in the ceiling when they were escaping from the facility in Siberia. Who knew what a monster could be capable of?

A few seconds later, Tank heard Reaper give the all clear, and slowly backed into the lab before closing and sealing the door behind her. It was then that she sighed and leaned against the wall next to the door.

Really, couldn't the cancer just stop _hurting_ for one mission?

"How much time you gonna need?" Reaper asked. Tank could see him looking around the room, exploring a little bit. She smiled tightly, hissing as the pain in her stomach flared up again.

_Always so curious, John,_ she mused, and then winced as it throbbed again. _Why now? Why _now,_ of all times?_

"Thirty minutes, tops," Tank dimly heard Sam reply. It was then that Tank allowed herself to sag against the wall and slide down it with a quiet groan, clutching her stomach.

Reaper was at her side a second later.

"Tank?" she heard him ask. "Tank, do you copy?"

Tank's breath escaped her through gritted teeth.

"Loud and clear," she wheezed. "Just hurts like a motherfuckin' bitch right now."

"What's wrong?" It was Sam. Tank heard Reaper sigh, and looked up at him imploringly.

"I'm fine, John," Tank whispered as the pain died down some. "Go on, I know you're _dying_ to look around."

She ended her sentence with a bitter chuckle. Reaper, however, was _not_ amused.

"That's not fucking _funny_, Amanda!" he growled. Tank laughed and struggled to her feet.

"Yeah it is," she quipped, wincing again as her guts throbbed. "You know it is."

Reaper got to his feet, glaring down into her eyes. "No, it _isn't_."

Tank rolled her eyes, shooing her husband away with a motion.

"Wait," Sam said. Tank and Reaper looked over at Sam to see her staring at Tank. "Amanda? As in Amanda Halley?"

Tank smiled. "Formerly. I got married. Nice to meet you again, Sam."

Sam grinned. "Congratulations. Why didn't you tell me you were getting married? I would have tried to make it."

Tank shrugged, moving into the lab as Reaper fumed silently behind her. "It was four years ago."

Sam shook her head. "Well, I'm glad for you nonetheless." She paused. "What was that a few seconds ago?"

Tank hesitated, and then grimaced, turning to look around the lab. "I'd rather not talk about it right now. Not in the middle of a mission."

She paused, seeing something white in a glass case.

_Ooh, pretty._

Undeniably attracted to the thing, she approached it, circling it, bending over to get a better look. Reaper eventually came up behind her, but his reaction was a little more... _disbelieving_ than Tank's.

"So, 'Reaper'?" Sam prompted after a second. "As in 'Grimm'?"

"They're Marines, Sam, not poets," Reaper replied, his voice deadpan. He looked back down at the fossils that Tank was so fascinated by. "What the fuck is this?"

"It's a skeleton, dummy," Tank stated, stooping to examine the pelvis. She glanced over at Sam. "Female, right?"

Sam looked back at them briefly before returning to her console. "Oh, yeah. That's Lucy. Lucy, this is my brother, John, another creature from the long-lost past, and this is Amanda, his coworker."

Tank snickered, then straightened and feigned a curtsy. "'Tis a pleasure to meet you, madame."

Sam chuckled, and Reaper raised an eyebrow at Tank.

"What?" Tank asked, catching the look. "Just thought I'd introduce myself."

Reaper shook his head and returned to the fossils. "They found human remains?"

"Humanoid," Sam corrected, not looking up from her work. "Close to us. 'Lucy' and her child were our first major find. We're bringing out more every day."

_Wrong thing to say, Sam,_ Tank inwardly groaned as Reaper whirled around to look at his sister.

"They reopened the dig?" he demanded furiously.

"You know," Tank ventured, "I think I saw some rooms that we missed. I'll just go check those out, now..."

And so she quietly slipped out of the lab, locking the door behind her. She could still hear everything that was said between them over the comms, though.

"_Look, maybe I should've told you, but it's not the sort of thing you jot down on a yearly birthday card._" Sam's voice was cold, faint and tinny from the distance between her and Reaper. "_Besides, it's been stabilized-_"

"_Bullshit!_" Tank winced at the vehemence in her husband's voice, and then she swore softly at herself when she realized that she had forgotten to pack her fluorescent marker. She would have to go back, back into the lion's den...

_Crap on a rabbit..._

"_You're saying it's _safe_ now?_" Reaper demanded as Tank began to head back to the lab. She hadn't gone that far, really...

"_I'm saying that the procedures we employ are second to-_"

"_Hold it right there!_" Reaper interrupted. Tank could _hear_ him seething, and _that_ was saying something. "_You're saying it's _safe,_ Sam? Jesus! How naïve _are_ you?_"

Tank winced as she slid her access card through the door and typed in the tetradecimal passcode. She knew that as soon as she walked in she would be dragged right into the middle of the argument.

Sam gave a soft, incredulous laugh as Tank entered the lab, closing and locking the door behind her. "You wanna talk about _safe?_ Like _you_ took a _desk job._ Like you're not out there doing God knows what for God knows why."

Tank winced. That one really hit home with her, her mind recalling the face of a child on the last mission she had gone on... the look of trust on the girl's face, right before the bullets from the enemy's gun chewed right through her.

Tank _still_ hated herself for that mission.

"I'm a forensic archaeologist, John," Sam continued, oblivious to Tank's thoughts as she turned to the computer again. "I go where the work is."

"Is that the only reason you're up here?" Reaper demanded irritably, but Tank was relieved to see his anger dying down some.

"You want to know why I'm up here?" Sam countered. She beckoned Reaper over to the console, and Tank absently followed, her interest piqued. By the time she joined them, Sam had uploaded a file that looked suspiciously like...

"A chromosome profile?" Tank inquired. Sam looked back at her and grinned.

"Lucy's," she said with a nod. "Notice anything?"

Tank frowned at the screen. Her biology was a little rusty, but...

"Come on," Sam said, and Tank glanced up to see her looking incredulously at Reaper. "We both know you smoked me in biology. What's the first thing dad taught us to look for?"

Tank winced inwardly, knowing that bringing up that tender subject would do little good for their current relationship.

"My molecular genetics is a little rusty," Reaper bit out, his demeanor and tone frosty.

"She has twenty-four chromosomes."

Tank's head whipped around to stare at Sam, eyes wide with shock.

"But humans only have twenty-three!" Tank exclaimed. Then she frowned. "What's the extra pair do?"

"What's the difference between me and her, under the hood?" asked Reaper, his interest finally getting the better of his anger. He blinked at the incredulous looks the women gave him, and then frowned. "What?"

Tank raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You mean you _want_ a pair of boobs and a vagina?"

Reaper's face flared red. "I _mean_ aside from the obvious, smart-ass."

"The extra pair makes her superhuman," Sam replied with a small smile. She got up and crossed over to Lucy, peering down into the glass case. "The twenty-fourth pair made her superstrong, superfit, superintelligent. Her cells divide fifty times faster than ours, meaning she heals almost instantly. The fossil record indicates that these people had conquered disease. No genetic disorders, no viruses, no cancers."

Tank and Reaper both stiffened as she finished her sentence. Reaper whirled to look at his sister, and Tank saw that his eyes were wide and hopeful. Tank, however, cut him off, not wanting him to get his hopes up.

"So she's just naturally superior to us?" Tank prompted. Sam shook her head.

"No, not naturally," she said. "The earliest remains we found only had twenty-three. We suspect that this chromosome might be synthetic."

"Bioengineered?" asked Reaper, his eyes fixed on Sam. Sam smiled thinly.

"Long word for a Marine," she observed. Then she turned back to Lucy before she could see Reaper's reaction. "As I'm sure you also don't know, only ninety percent of the human genome is mapped. There's plenty of room in the helix to insert stealth DNA if you could figure out a way to manufacture it."

Tank blinked at her sister-in-law. That had just gone over her head and off into the great beyond. "Okay, you lost me."

"I'm with Tank on that sentiment," Reaper groused, shaking his head. Tank raised her eyebrows and exchanged a look with Reaper.

"_Way_ past high-school bio class," she muttered.

"I hear you."

"Sure," Sam snorted, eyeing her twin. Reaper and Tank crossed over to stand next to Sam, looking down at Lucy. There was a long, awkward pause.

"Does it ever bother you," Sam began, and Tank knew that she was talking to Reaper, "that you could've spent your life looking down a microscope instead of a sniperscope?"

Reaper snorted, and Tank saw a 'Yeah-fucking-_right_' smirk pull one side of his mouth upwards.

"And work up here for UAC?" he countered dryly. "Sorry, I value my life too much."

Tank shivered. _So true._

After all, there had been a _lot_ of old bloodstains in the halls they had gone through to get to the lab. Tank did _not_ want to find out what had made them, and that was aside from the level of quarantine... plus the tapes.

The screams she'd heard on those tapes had made her _glad_ that she had become a Marine, if only because the enemies she usually faced were tangible, and because she knew how to fight if a mission went down the crapper.

"Right," Sam said, ignorant of Tank's thoughts. "Like we don't all work for UAC."

"I'm in RRTS, Sam," Reaper said. "I serve my country."

But Tank frowned, knowing that it was a denial of truth.

"Now who's being naïve?" asked Sam. Reaper shrugged, and looked pointedly back to Lucy.

"So if they were so smart, how come they're so dead?"

The computer chimed, and Sam glanced at Reaper and Tank before she went back over to remove the disk that had just finished downloading.

"We don't know," Sam admitted. "Maybe they just went with time."

A chill crept down Tank's spine at those words as she stared at the position that Lucy and her child were in.

"You don't shield a baby from time," Reaper said quietly beside her.

Tank shivered again. Reaper looked at her, noticing the movement.

"You okay?" he asked. Tank looked up at him, another shudder wracking her body.

"You were right," she stated. Reaper blinked, and tilted his head in question.

"About what?" he inquired. Tank shivered a third time, a chill creeping across her neck. It felt like somebody was staring at her.

"Space is cold," she replied softly. "Very cold."

Tank glanced around the room, her eyes wary.

"And it's not just from the atmosphere," she whispered. "I keep feeling like something's watching me."

Reaper opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off when a report came over the comms. It was Goat.

"_We got something._"

* * *

_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own Doom. *cries*_

_Not much to say about this chapter. I'm sorry it's a day late, by the way. My internet went down around noon yesterday and didn't get back up until about one today. I was very sad. On another note, we've finally gotten to Olduvai, and things are going to heat up during the next chapter. The shit's about to hit the fan, people (literally, in some cases), so please put your heads between your knees and kiss your butts goodbye! (I think that's how that quote goes)_

_Ahem._

_Thank you to __**Crye 4 Me**__ for reviewing chapter 38. I totally got that reference, and the hint. :) And I'm very glad you like this story so much!_

_Next chapter should be posted 8-23-10, provided all goes well._

_-__**P**__ortrait of a __**S**__cribe_


	40. 2046 AD UACRC Olduvai Mars 0045 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_You gonna do somethin' or just stand there and bleed?"  
–Wyatt Earp, __Tombstone__  
_

__

**Chapter 39.**

* * *

_**2046 A.D. - UAC Research Center Olduvai, Mars - 0045 hours**_

"_We got movement in Carmack's office,_" Goat's voice said over the comms. "_Investigating now._"

Tank and Reaper exchanged glances and simultaneously headed for the door.

"Stay here," Reaper ordered Sam. He didn't wait for her reply.

A second later, they heard Portman's hushed voice. "_Fucking door's been ripped open!_"

A shiver ran down Tank's spine, and it wasn't the result of the cold air, this time. She and Reaper left the lab and started down the hallway toward genetics. Then the staccato report of gunfire rattled out of the comms, and they bolted down the hallway.

"_Contact!_" Goat was yelling into his comm. "_Contact! Moving east from genetics- fast!_"

Tank and Reaper dashed down the hallway as quickly as they dared, their eyes all over the place as they rushed toward the weapons lab. A few turns, and they heard gunfire from up ahead.

"Hold your fire!" Reaper shouted as they rounded the next corner and almost ran straight into the Kid and Destroyer. Tank dashed past as soon as it was clear. She saw the thing- _humanoid, but so inhuman_- whip around a corner ahead of her, and she followed at its heels, hearing Reaper and the others right behind her-

Only to come to a dead end.

Tank's eyes flicked around in the gloom for a listless second before she heard something to her left and whipped around, gun raised, to throw her light on it. Then she blinked.

"Doctor Carmack?" she asked, vaguely hearing Sarge come up behind her. The old scientist was cowering in the corner of the room. In his hands was clutched the pale arm of a woman, ripped and torn flesh dangling from its elbow, blue in color. _Rotting._

Tank took a deep breath through her mouth to avoid the smell that was rolling off the ratlike man in waves. She had no desire to vomit in the middle of the hallway.

"If you have a weapon, drop it!" Reaper commanded beside her. Tank almost gagged again as Sarge flipped on the lights and she saw the condition of the scientist.

He was half-naked, blood-covered, babbling, anorexic. It was clear that his mind had been broken. A wound on the side of his neck was festering and leaking scarlet down his front. Carmack stuttered and babbled a bit more, glancing wildly down at the arm and up at the Marines as the Kid and Destroyer arrived, shortly followed by Goat and Portman.

The arm fell to the floor with a dull squelch. Tank gulped back bile, her breath coming fast.

"Oh, my God!" Sam had arrived, contrary to orders. Tank grabbed for the other woman's arm.

"Stay back!" Tank ordered.

"I told you to stay in the lab!" Reaper snapped.

"But he _knows_ me, John!" Sam protested, and shook off Tank's hand to approach Carmack. The older scientist hissed- _hissed!_- and shied away. Tank aimed her gun at Carmack's forehead, her index finger lightly pressing on the trigger, ready to fire...

"Doctor Carmack?" Sam asked, slowly approaching Carmack.

_Right, treat him like a cornered animal. Good girl._

"Doctor Carmack- It's me, Samantha," Sam continued. "I'm not going to hurt you..."

Carmack shrieked, startled, and shied further backward, one hand coming up to _rip off his own ear._ He flung it toward them like an ape would throw shit.

Tank groaned, slouched, and backed slowly out of the room. Her head was pounding, and her stomach was churning and aching and _Oh God it hurt_ and she couldn't breathe-

As soon as Tank was out of the room, she paced down the hall and around the corner, where she sagged heavily against the bloodstained wall with a faint groan. Her chest heaved as she tried to fight down her gag reflex. She swallowed a couple of times, breathing deeply and steadily through her mouth.

_I almost wish I could throw up right now,_ she thought miserably, _if only to make my guts stop churning. Too bad I already threw up earlier._

Still, a quiet burp escaped her, and she leaned over, feeling as though she actually might vomit. However, nothing came up.

"_Tank?_" The voice came through her comm and from down the hall simultaneously.

"'m here," she croaked shakily. "What's the situation?"

"_You're going to the med lab with Duke, Doctor Grimm, and Carmack,_" Sarge ordered. "_Where are you?_"

"Down the hall," she replied, groaning quietly again. "I'm trying not to get sick again. Sarge-"

Tank suddenly stopped, the strong sensation of being watched hitting her. She whirled around, her nausea almost forgotten as she shouldered her rifle, her eyes scanning the area around her.

A low growl rumbled out of the darkness.

"_Tank?_" prompted Sarge in her ear. She didn't hear him, too preoccupied with placing that noise. "_Tank, report!_"

The hair on the back of Tank's neck stood on end, and she fought down the fear that rose in her at the sound of the growl.

Suddenly something launched itself out of the darkness at her, snarling and snapping. Tank shrieked in surprise, her finger squeezing the trigger. Her assault rifle spat out three rounds before the thing crumpled lifelessly to the floor, and Tank fell back against the wall, panting, shaking hard enough that she had to move her finger from the trigger or risk sending off a few more bullets.

"_Tank! Report, goddamnit!_" Sarge was demanding in her ear.

_I'm scared shitless, Sarge,_ she thought about telling him, her whole body nearly convulsing from the force of her fear. _I've never, ever been more scared in my life. And I don't want to admit it to you or anyone else, but I think I probably just about pissed myself._

Tank eyed the thing she'd shot, casting her light on it, still gasping in an effort to regain her composure.

It was a dog. Bloody froth was leaking out of its mouth onto the floor, and more blood was pooling around it. Tank's shots had caught it in the chest and head.

"It's a dog, Sarge," Tank reported, gasping and swallowing as she leaned her head back against the wall. "Jumped at me. Looks like it was rabid."

Then she noticed the strange qualities of the dog. Most of its fur had fallen out, exposing the dark skin underneath, but that wasn't what caught her eye. What caught her eye was the way it seemed deformed, with lumps of bone ridging the top of its head and other bone protrusions where they shouldn't be. Its skin was red in the best of places, scabrous in the worst. A smell of death hung over it, like fetid meat.

Tank retched again and doubled over, dry-heaving, when the smell reached her nose, and she decided that she would be better off just staying with Carmack and his disembodied arm than to stay out where she could get attacked by animals that smelled the same.

"It's not like any dog I've ever seen, Sarge," Tank reported when her stomach's clenching ceased and she cautiously backed away from the fresh corpse. She went on to report its appearance to her commander, who listened in silence.

"_Just get back here, Tank,_" Sarge ordered when she had finished. "_Worry about the damn dog later._"

Tank swallowed back a retort, silently telling herself she was just being paranoid. But _seriously_... there was some weird shit going on.

_I don't like it. Not one little bit._

She rejoined the squad a second later, pale and trembling faintly. Duke had picked up Carmack, and he and Sam were waiting for her. Tank briefly shook her head to unstick her bangs from her cheeks, and glanced at them. She swallowed again.

Then a hand landed on her left elbow, and she jerked around to see Reaper staring at her.

_You okay?_ his eyes asked her. Tank took a shaking breath, her heart still pounding, and minutely shook her head.

_No, I'm not._

Reaper frowned deeply, and Tank saw the concern etched into his face. She shook her head again, and let go of her rifle briefly to squeeze his left hand with hers. Their rings clicked together quietly, but audibly, in the suddenly silent air.

_I'll be fine. Worry about yourself._

Then she let him go, nodded to Duke, Sam, and Sarge, and led the way down the hall, rifle shouldered and light on.

The sounds of the rest of the squad filtered out behind her as she led the way back to the airlock, passing the corpse of the dog she'd shot on the way.

"That the thing that jumped you?" Duke asked. Tank glanced back at him to see both him and Sam staring at the dog.

"Yeah," Tank replied, her voice shaking slightly. She glanced upwards, the hair on the back of her neck rising again. "Keep moving, Duke, and keep your eyes peeled. This is reminding me _way_ too much of one of those old horror movies where things start popping out of the ceiling and floor."

"Yeah?" Duke asked lightly as they continued on. "Then what happens?"

Tank briefly glanced back at them before she peered carefully around the corner.

"Either the black guy, the blond girl, or the Christian usually gets it first, and we all fit all three of those categories," she said dryly, voice faintly trembling. She peeked down the other side of the hall. "And it's usually as soon as they start to feel something watching them." She paused. "Clear."

"_That's_ reassuring," Duke stated dryly. Tank didn't reply.

They reached the airlock after a few minutes of cautious motion, and Tank covered them while Sam opened the door. Then they all piled inside and she locked it again before they went through the other door.

Sam closed and sealed it again behind them, and then the quartet moved out into the atrium. Tank lowered her rifle, but kept looking around, always alert.

"Hey, Tank," Duke called as they entered the throng. Tank was aware of the horrified looks they were gathering, as well as Sam moving off, calling the name of another doctor. She returned a second later with a black-haired woman in tow.

"Oh, my God!" gasped the new doctor, rushing up to examine Carmack, still cradled in Duke's arms. "What's happening in there?"

"Doctor Willits," Sam said. "We're taking him to the infirmary. We'll need your help."

Doctor Willits nodded, and the four of them kept moving as Hunegs calmed the populace down behind them.

"Tank," Duke persisted as they walked off down another hallway. "Why didn't you ever tell me you and Reaper are married?"

Tank glanced at him with a raised eyebrow, also seeing Sam's startled look. "We thought you'd figure it out on your own, seeing as you- and I quote- 'passed Calc five and decided it wasn't for me'."

She lowered her voice comically as she said it, too. Tank turned her attention back to the hallway, raising her gun again as they passed out of the more populated sector.

"But I guess a loss of common sense comes with the acquisition of brains, huh?" she asked distractedly, glancing up into the rafters.

"You didn't exactly make it obvious," Duke observed. Tank gave him an Air Force salute.

"Yeah, well, most of the guys got a little jealous that we could occasionally sneak out," she said. She paused to check around a corner. "Clear."

Tank led them down the hall, following the signs that said 'med lab'.

"We just decided before we came back to the base that we would limit the PDAs," she continued. "Didn't you ever notice that we occasionally just vanished after training was over for the day? Between dinner and curfew?"

They came to a dead end with an access panel on one side of some framework set into the wall.

"Oh, no, no, no, no," Duke groaned, spotting the contraption. "I don't do nanowalls."

"Yes, you do," Sam stated, and punched in the access code. The wall became translucent so that Tank could see through its liquid mass to the lab on the other side. She glanced at Sam.

"Wait here," Tank ordered, and then she took a deep breath and pushed through the nanowall.

For an instant, it was like stepping through warm, electrically-charged mud, and Tank had to actually exert some effort as it flowed around her before she finally broke through on the other side, repressing a shiver. She swept the room with her eyes, keeping her gun to her shoulder, and scanned the ceiling.

Seeing that it was clear, she turned back and waved the rest of them in.

Sam was the first through, shortly followed by Doctor Willits. Duke hesitated for a second, and then gritted his teeth.

"_Fuck this shit,_" he muttered, and then forced himself through with a shudder.

Tank had already pulled a gurney out, by that time, and Duke came over to lay Carmack on it. Then he and Tank stepped back as Sam and Doctor Willits pulled on their gloves and began their examination. Tank scanned the sterile room again, taking note of its stainless steel sheen and the clucking, humming instruments that she only dimly recalled being introduced to during her training so long ago. She spotted a stool standing innocuously next to a table, and went over to it, sitting down with a heavy sigh. Duke followed her.

"So, what?" he asked, leaning against the table. "You two were sneaking out to do the nasty?"

Tank shot him a glare, bending over to ease the ache in her gut.

"Fuck, no!" she protested, hissing a bit as her stomach throbbed. "I just liked to go running in the evenings, when it was nice out. Yeah, sometimes we ended up having sex, but you'd be surprised at exactly how infrequent that was."

Tank shook her head. "I felt guilty for being able to have him almost whenever I wanted when the rest of the team had to wait for furlough, so usually we didn't unless the urge was really, _really_ strong. Especially after we got caught in the rain, once, and almost ended up buried under a mudslide. Then, of course, I ended up sick a week later, got really frustrated, ended taking it out on him, and we both ended up in CCU for a month."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Tank paused as a sudden thought hit her, and she pulled a face at Duke. "Why'm I even discussing this with you, anyway?"

Duke grinned and shrugged. "'Cause I'm just easy to talk to."

Tank chuckled quietly. "Yeah, I guess you are."

She eyed Sam as the blond woman began to take Carmack's blood pressure. "Duke. Come on."

Tank got up and swiftly crossed the room to the gurney, keeping a bead on Carmack. Duke followed right behind her.

Tank almost fired when Carmack suddenly shot up from the stretcher, grabbed Sam's hair, and pulled her close.

"Whoa!" Duke cried, leveling his rifle at Carmack.

"Oh, God, I can feel it!" Carmack moaned, oblivious to the weapons trained on him. Sam had pulled back somewhat on her own, though, and held a hand out to stay the Marines' advance.

"It's okay- I'm okay," she said. "Doctor Carmack? What happened in there? ...It's me, Doctor Grimm... Samantha Grimm..."

Carmack didn't hear her, but jerked her head down toward his again.

"_Shut it down!_" he shouted, nose-to-nose, spittle flying from his lips. Tank recoiled slightly at the smell and in disgust. Carmack let Sam go an instant later, sinking back onto the cot. His lips moved, but no sound came out save for the unintelligible stuttering. Sam leaned closer, and Tank nervously swallowed back her nausea so that she could approach. She was vaguely aware of Duke doing the same. After all, the guy could go psychotic on them again at any time, and she and Duke didn't want Sam to get hurt.

"I-It-t's ins-s-side," Carmack finally got out, barely audible.

_What's inside? Where?_ Tank wondered. Then Carmack's eyes glazed over.

There was a second of absolute silence in the infirmary. Then Tank heard gunfire over the comm, and she jerked straight with a gasp of surprise.

"_Contact report!_" Sarge was ordering. Tank looked over at Duke, who stared back anxiously.

"Damn, I wish I was out there," Tank whispered to him. Duke cast her an empathetic look.

"Me, too, girl," he said. "Me, too."

"_Found one of our missing scientists,_" Tank heard Reaper report, and she breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn't hurt. "_Doctor Olsen. He rushed us. Crazy. Just like Carmack._"

There was something in Reaper's voice that hinted at something that he couldn't figure out. Tank shivered, wondering what her husband's thoughts were.

"_Is he dead?_" Sarge asked.

"_Yeah, very..._" Reaper replied, his voice almost lost in the comm's hiss. There were a few moments of relative silence.

Then there was more gunfire, and Tank felt her heart skip a beat while, in the background, Doctor Willits drew a sample of blood from Carmack's body. Tank heard the other woman's hushed exclamation, glanced at the blood in the syringe, and then did a double-take, staring.

The blood was jet-black.

"_Should we bag and tag him?_" Reaper asked, and Tank turned her attention back to the conversation.

"_Negative,_" Sarge replied. "_Continue your search._"

There was a pause. Then more gunfire. Tank stiffened.

"_Reaper,_" Sarge prompted after a moment, when the shots had died down. "_What've you got?_"

"_We're chasing something,_" Reaper responded.

"_What do you mean, 'something'?_"

Tank waited for the response with bated breath.

"_Something big! Not human!_"

_'Not human'? Oh, fuck, I _hate_ it when I'm right!_

"_Goddamnit, give me a confirmation on what you see! Reaper! ...Pinky, you get a look at it?_"

"_Roger that,_" came Pinky's voice. "_Enhancing now._"

There was a moment of radio silence.

"_Hey, guys,_" Pinky said. Tank could detect some dreadful hesitation in his voice. "_It ain't a disgruntled employee. Uploading to you now, Sarge..._"

A second later, Sarge muttered, "_What in the...?_"

Tank decided that she did _not_ want to know what it was that they had seen.

"_Sarge._" It was Reaper, again, and Tank breathed another sigh of relief. "_It's in the sewer._" There was a pause, during which Tank could hear a metallic scraping sound. "_Talk to me, Pinky._"

"_An outflow tunnel,_" Pinky said. "_It connects that section of the sewer to the main facility's system._"

"_So..._" It was Goat, now. "_You wanna go first?_"

"_All units, all units,_" Reaper said, "_request assistance at the southeast corridor, med lab!_"

Sarge's voice boomed over the comms in response. "_Copy that, Reaper. Stay put until we get there! All units- converge on Reaper's position. Southeast corridor, med lab. _Move!"

Tank and Duke glanced at each other, and then Tank turned to Sam and Doctor Willits.

"Sam," Tank called. Sam glanced up at Tank. "You and Doctor Willits stay here with Carmack. Keep the nanowall closed and the doors sealed. Don't open them for anybody."

"When we get back, we'll open 'em ourselves," Duke continued. Sam nodded, confirming the orders, and the two Marines headed for the door.

Tank paused, and then slung her sniper rifle off of her shoulder. She leaned it against the wall next to the nanowall, and then she grabbed her submachine gun off of her thigh and followed Duke, leaving the rifle behind.

"Pinky," she said into her comm. There was a brief burst of static.

"_Yeah?_"

"Before you ask, I'm leaving my sniper rifle behind," Tank said as they exited the med lab and sealed the door behind them.

Then Duke led the way down the hall to the southeast corridor.

* * *

_**2046 A.D. - UAC Research Center Olduvai, Mars - 0109 hours**_

"I thought bein' 'in the shit' was a figure of speech..."

"Get in the goddamn hole, Portman!"

Tank heard these things from where she was submerged to the crotch in the bottom of the tunnel, trying real hard not to throw up from the stench. Most of it was runoff, but, highlighted by her gunlights and by the light that was filtering in from the access hatch, she could see waste products. Feces, toilet paper, even some dead animals and parts of dead animals floated past. Tank grimaced as she sidestepped a dead rhesus monkey that bobbed near to her.

The men all had to bend over to fit into the tunnel, but Tank could just barely walk without dashing her head on the ceiling. For this, at least, she was grateful, since it meant that she didn't have to bend over and look at what she was walking in.

_Who knows what kinds of diseases are down here...?_

Tank almost moaned in horror at the thought.

A splash behind her announced Portman's arrival. He gagged a few times from the stench, and moved over to join the rest of them, bent over to fit. When Sarge arrived a second later, Sarge motioned for Portman to take point. Destroyer was left to cover their exit as the squad moved on in their search.

"Hey, Portman," the Kid said, his voice quavering, "when you were young y'ever picture yourself doing _this?_"

"No," Portman grumbled immediately. "I pictured myself gettin' laid." Behind them walked Goat and Duke. Goat was reciting Bible passages quietly.

"Be sober, be vigilant, because your adversary the devil walketh about seeking whom he may devour," he muttered.

Behind him came Reaper and Tank. Tank kept her eyes open, blinking when she saw the Kid stumble slightly. Then she groaned quietly.

"What's wrong?" whispered Reaper. Tank glanced at him with a frown.

"I haven't given Kid the 'don't do drugs or I'll shoot you' speech, yet," she hissed back. "I totally forgot it in light of the mission."

"Give it to him next time you get the chance," Reaper responded. Tank nodded.

"If you get paired off with him, give it to him for me, would you?" she asked. Reaper nodded.

Up ahead, Portman was grumbling at Goat. "That's real comforting, Goat. I mean, that's not freaking me out _at all!_"

Tank turned to look at them in time to see Goat glare at Portman. Then, as if it was a biblical curse, Portman suddenly vanished- just _vanished._

"Portman!" Goat exclaimed. Tank dropped her assault rifle to let it hang from her shoulder, and she and Reaper edged forward.

"Portman!" Reaper shouted, both of them reaching down under the water to fish around for their squadmate. Tank grimaced, bending down further. Then she felt a head, and a flailing arm. She seized it.

Portman's grip was full of desperation as he grabbed onto her arm. To her left, Reaper was shoulder-deep in the stinking water as he bent down, hooking his hands underneath Portman's arms, and together they pulled.

"Damn sonuvabitch is heavy!" Reaper grunted. Tank gave an inarticulate growl as she heaved.

"Put some muscle into it, you pansy!" she wheezed. They leaned back, pushing with their legs, using their weight to try to drag Portman to the surface- something popped loose down below, and they dragged Portman, thrashing, up into sight.

"Damnit!" Portman spluttered, spitting sewage and water out of his mouth. "Shit!"

"Literally," Tank groused, wrinkling her nose at the stuff that was now covering most of her body. "Jesus, Portman, what the hell happened?"

"I fell in the damn hole!" he whined, rolling his eyes. He stood there, dripping, arms akimbo, before shaking them in an effort to clean them off some. "Shit!"

"Well, Portman, congratulations," Reaper grumbled, displeased with his own hygienic state. "Your first bath in a month."

"Everybody on me, and watch your goddamn footing!" Sarge barked irritably. "Move out!"

They did as ordered, skirting the depression carefully before they continued down the tunnel. It was only a few yards before Sarge's gunlight landed on something floating in the water... something white and red, with the vague shape of a human torso.

"Up ahead," Sarge said, pointing with the light. He waded forward to snatch it out of the sewage while the rest of them covered him.

It was a labcoat.

"We got a Doctor Willits," Sarge announced, just loud enough for them to hear over the sound of the water. "Steve Willits."

Tank grimaced, knowing instinctively that the man had been the husband of the doctor who had helped them with Carmack. Sarge dropped the coat back into the water and took his gun up again. They moved on.

A few more yards down the corridor they entered a junction. Sarge glanced around, taking in the several tunnels that split off of the one they were in.

"Goat, Tank, straight," Sarge, ordered, punctuating his command by pointing down the tunnel he was referring to. "Portman and I will go left. John, Kid, on the right. Portman, you're on point."

And so they split up, Tank casting an anxious glance at Reaper as she did so. For a few seconds, there was nothing save for the sound and motion of the water. Tank thought her breathing sounded loud even over that din.

"_You take anymore of that shit, Kid,_" Reaper's voice suddenly said over the comm. Tank paused mid-step, and then swore inwardly when she realized that the Kid was already high. "_And I'll blow holes in you _and_ Portman._"

_Portman? That motherfucking-_

She was cut off as Goat's light suddenly started flickering. He smacked it a few times, and it came back on. Tank breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

"_Goat, Tank, something's behind you!_" Tank stiffened, and whirled around when she registered what Reaper had said. "_It's under the surface! It's coming toward you!_"

Tank swung her light from side to side in tandem with Goat, searching for the thing Reaper had referred to. Nothing but shit.

"Don't see anything," Tank whispered.

"I don't see it!" Goat reported.

"_It's there!_"

Tank drew a shaking breath, her heart pounding. Then the thing she wanted least to happen happened.

Goat's light went out.

"This isn't happening," Goat whispered. "My light is down. Think my battery's out. Pinky... you see it?"

Tank drew her breath in, trying to hear for anything that she could.

"_No... nothing,_" Pinky said in her headset. Tank's trembling right hand held her submachine gun out to Goat.

"Goat," she breathed. "Take my gun. Now. It's got a light on it. Overslung."

But before Goat could take it, there came a low splashing sound to Tank's left- Goat's right- accompanied by a reptilian sort of chuckle. Tank stopped breathing.

"Doctor Willits?" queried Goat, just before Tank angled her gun and light toward the source.

Tank gasped with shock, froze for a half an instant, at the sight of the thing. Myriad luminescent eyes peered out at her from the gloom, set in a half-rotted face that was mounted on a lithe, sinuous body, armed with talons and fangs and God-knows-what-else.

That half an instant was all the creature needed to attack. It lashed out with its talons, aiming for Goat. Tank reacted on instinct, tackling Goat out of the way with a shout, but she wasn't fast enough, and the creature's talons caught her high on her chest. She was sent rocketing to the side, her back hitting the wall of the tunnel with a sickening crack of breaking ribs. Tank couldn't even get the breath to scream.

A light flashed at them from down the tunnel. Reaper, Tank vaguely realized through the haze of pain. But he was too far away to fire without hitting either her or Goat.

Goat, in the meanwhile, had been grabbed and pinned bodily to the wall next to Tank. Tank managed to swing her light over to land on it as she tried to get her gun up to shoot it, but she couldn't aim properly. All she managed to see was the creature's tongue lashing out and latching onto the side of Goat's neck even as he got his double-barreled, multi-round shotgun up, firing it twice into the monster's midsection.

It shrieked and released Goat to slump down against the wall while the creature ran off into the sewers. Its tongue detached from its mouth, and Tank could see it moving, throbbing, almost like a-

"Venom," she gasped out, and then groaned as a section of her back protested angrily. _Probably broke some ribs..._

She reached out agonizingly, allowing her submachine gun to hang by her shoulder. Dimly aware of Reaper charging down the tunnel after the creature, she grasped the tongue, her grip as tight as she could force it to be. Then she yanked, and it came free with a tearing sound and a squeal that should _not_ have been possible from something without lungs or a voicebox.

It whipped around, lashing ineffectively against her jumpsuit. Then it brushed the back of her hand where her glove didn't cover her skin, seemed to pause, and went limp in her grasp.

There came the sound of metal impacting flesh, then gunfire. She heard Reaper's gasping breaths, and then she heard him scream "Man down!" before he came back down the tunnel. Reaper's gunlight blinded her for an instant. Tank heard the sound of bodies splashing through sewage.

Then Reaper bent over her, and Tank's back exploded with agony.

She yelled in pain. Stars burst in front of her eyes, slowly expanding to turn her vision fully black, but she didn't pass out. No, Tank couldn't pass out, something was preventing her from doing that. Something moved, she couldn't tell what- _Oh, _I'm_ moving-_ and she was being lifted, lifted, and carried, and _Oh, God, it hurts more than the cancer does!_

Tank was dimly aware of being set down on something, and she whined as her back hurt again, but the pain was slowly fading, and she could _see_ again, and _Oh Jesus, Lord, why can't I feel my legs?_

But as the pain eased, so did the feeling return to her legs, and before long Tank found that she _could_ move them.

_Cracked vertebra, maybe?_

To her left, the squad was bustling around a gurney, and on that gurney-

Tank moaned. _Oh, God, it's Goat! Lord, why him? Why him, of all of us? Why couldn't it have been me?_

Because she knew, in her heart of hearts, that Goat was already dead.

The flatline that blared a second later only proved her right.

Tank heard the sound of discharging defibrillators, saw Goat's body jump.

_Reaper, you've got the paddles placed wrong- below his right clavicle, below his left pectoral muscle, not on each pectoral!_

Tank struggled up, gasping as the pain in her back and in her gut flared, but she made it to her feet anyway and took a couple of stumbling steps toward them.

"Move!" she gasped out, shoving her way between Reaper and Duke. Reaper stared at her for a second, but Tank ignored him, snarling as she grabbed the defibrillator pads and positioned them properly.

_One under his right clavicle, one on his side, just below his left pectoralis minor-_

"Shock him!" she ordered, standing back with a wobble.

"Clear!" Reaper ordered, and the rest of them stepped out of the way. Goat's body jumped again. They all anxiously watched the heart monitor for any change.

Nothing.

Tank swore and grabbed the paddles from Reaper. "Clear!"

She zapped Goat again. He flopped, but there was no reaction, otherwise. Tank looked into his eyes, only to find them dilated and glazed. _Dead..._

Tank keened low in her throat, and slumped over to lean on the edge of the gurney. She was dimly aware of somebody taking the paddles from her and putting them away. Then a pair of feminine hands landed on Tank's shoulders and gently pulled her away. She gasped with pain as she was made to stand upright again, but she pushed past it and staggered over to collapse onto a nearby stool.

"_That's not what Goat and I shot at in Genetics..._"

Everything was a blur- she couldn't concentrate through the pain. Tank was dimly aware of somebody taking her vest off of her- _Oh, God, it hurts_- and then unzipping her jumpsuit down to her waist to expose her tank top and sports bra. There was a careful, probing touch going down her spine-

Tank yelled incoherently, arching away from that touch, when it pressed into her back about halfway down her ribcage.

"_...Entrance to the archaeological dig..._"

Then the touch was gone, and she slumped over, seeing through a yellow haze as somebody moved around behind her. A few seconds passed, and then Tank heard a couple of beeping noises.

"She's got three cracked ribs- here, here, and here- as well as an avulsion fracture to her T5 vertebra-"

_Aw, shit, I hate being right._

"What the fuck does that mean?" _Sarge?_

"She's got a crack in her spine, that's what it means!" _Sam?_ "This piece of bone, here, fragmented off due to some trauma that she endured. She can't move without it hurting, and if she _does_ then she runs the risk of it damaging her spinal cord!"

Tank took a shaking breath and finally managed to clear the haze from her sight.

"I can move," she gasped out. "I-I can move."

"No, you can't!" exclaimed Sam, finally moving back into Tank's field of vision. Tank shook her head.

"Yes, I can," she said, calming her breathing. "We need to make sure that thing doesn't get away..."

Then Sarge appeared in front of her, frowning down at Tank with some displeasure.

"If you get in the way or anything like that, I'm taking you out," Sarge stated, and Tank didn't know whether he was referring to taking her out of action... or killing her.

"Aye, sir," she mumbled, and reached down for her jumpsuit sleeves. She bit back a yell and tears as her motions made her broken bones shoot fire through her body, but she pushed through it, zipped up her jumpsuit, and managed to get her vest on.

"You know," she mused, words slightly slurred. "I think I'll be glad to get out of this room. Y'know why?"

"Why?" asked Sam, prepping a painkiller for Tank.

"'Cause maybe then the smell won't be so bad," Tank grumbled. She wrinkled her nose, feeling a prick in the crook of her arm. "Seriously, I haven't smelled this bad since I got crapped on by a kid I was babysitting back in thirty-five."

Sam laughed softly, and Tank could hear Duke's quiet chuckle.

"Okay," Tank said, getting to her feet again. "Let's do this."

_At least those painkillers worked fast..._

She grabbed her assault rifle and her submachine gun, slung their straps across her shoulders, and then she headed for the door along with the rest of the men.

Duke was the only one who stayed behind.

* * *

_**Disclaimer:**__ "I'm your huckleberry." –Doc Holliday, __Tombstone__, which, by the way, I don't own. I don't own Doom, either._

_Well, unfortunately all did not go well, as you can probably tell by the fact that I posted this one on a Thursday instead of the promised Monday. I'm really sorry. College started back up again on Monday, and I'm just trying to get back into the swing of things again for the semester; it doesn't help that I hate all my classes so far, and the only one that even sounds interesting doesn't start until the 14__th__. Sigh. At least, if I pass this semester with good grades, I'll have earned my degree and will be ready to move on._

_Just an FYI, I'm considering ROTC and the DLI. Strongly._

_Chapter notes: When I first started writing the Olduvai arc months ago (last year?), I had originally thought about having Tank save Goat. Then I worked her cancer in, and I thought, 'hey, they're waist-deep in sewage, their clothes will be waterlogged; she wouldn't be able to move faster than a mutant in order to save Goat.' No matter how I worked it, I just couldn't keep him alive, so this came about instead. By the way, I have NO idea what kind of painkiller Sam just gave Tank, but whatever it is, it's gotta be some kind of morphine or something. Tank's about as high as a kite right now… XD_

_Ah, she's protesting. *shouts over to Tank* Methinks the lady doth protest too much!_

_Ahem. Thank you very much to everyone who reviewed chapter 39! This means __**Crye 4 Me**__, __**angel19872006**__, __**powergirl24**__, and __**Kakashi-luver**__. You guys rule, and I'm really glad you all liked it so much! Group hug! *glomps everyone*_

_Next chapter should be posted 8-30-10, provided all goes well._

_-__**P**__ortrait of a __**S**__cribe_


	41. 2046 AD UACRC Olduvai Mars 0245 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_I saw your flag on the marble arch/ But love is not a vict'ry march/ It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah…"  
_–_Rufus Wainright, "Hallelujah"_

__

**Chapter 40.**

* * *

_**2046 A.D. - UAC Research Center Olduvai, Mars - 0245 hours**_

Tank fought down the urge to roll her shoulders, dimly recalling that she had been injured and really shouldn't be moving at all. But, really, she couldn't feel much of anything regarding pain. Her muscles felt loose, and for the first time in months, her gut wasn't aching from the cancer.

_A miracle, if I ever heard of one... Is this what it's like to be high?_

Sarge was standing to her left, Reaper to her right. They were in the atrium again, the room now deserted. Mac had joined them only seconds ago.

"We're not calling in backup?" asked Portman. He looked shocked, incredulous.

_Sorry, Ports, doesn't look like it..._

Sarge cast Portman a cool look before replying. "The Ark is sealed. Nothing crosses back here until everything on this planet is dead."

_Does that include us, Sarge?_ Tank wondered, but kept her mouth studiously shut.

"Weapons check," Sarge ordered, and Tank shouldered her assault rifle with a roll of her eyes. "We're goin' in hot."

It was obvious from the tone of his voice that Sarge wouldn't accept any protests. However, Portman- high as he was- didn't seem to pick up on this.

"You're serious?" he demanded. His weapon was sitting on the floor beside him, waiting.

Tank could tell that Reaper was getting tired, simply from the barely-audible sigh he gave before he spoke.

"Pick up your weapon, Portman," Reaper ordered, looking over at the blond man. Portman didn't respond.

Destroyer reloaded his chain gun.

"Come on, Portman," he rumbled. "Move out."

"Didn't you see how that thing greased Goat?" Portman's voice was getting shrill, and he didn't move anywhere. "It _threw_ Tank, right? We don't know what we're dealing with, here!"

"Yeah, we do," Tank said softly, and they all turned to look at her. Tank didn't look up from reloading her rifle. "We're dealing with monsters, the stuff out of an old horror flick. Superhuman strength, speed... Subhuman intelligence, acting on primal instincts... Feed. Breed. Kill. Survive."

She finally looked up at them. "That thing was designed to kill. It's the ultimate predator."

Tank glanced around the atrium. "Keep your eyes peeled. Don't let any dark corner go unlit, don't ever lower your guard, don't set down your guns, or it may be the last thing you do."

"Gee, that's _real_ comforting," Portman spat, and then looked back to Sarge. "It's SOP to call in reinforcements when a situation-"

"We _are _the reinforcements!" Sarge finally roared, sick of Portman's whining. Tank winced at the volume. "Now _shoulder _your _fucking weapon, soldier!_"

Portman swallowed, looking to Reaper for support. Reaper just slammed home a fresh clip into his assault rifle before he shouldered it again and looked to Sarge.

"Pray for war," Reaper intoned.

"Pray for war!" the others chimed in, though Tank remained silent, and Portman simply fumed for a few seconds before he finally shook his head and shouldered his rifle.

"Pray for fucking war," he grumbled.

They broke off into two teams, Destroyer practically dragging Portman with him and the Kid. Tank, Mac, Reaper, and Sarge headed for a tunnel marked D4. Tank only hoped that the others would be safe.

It was a long tunnel, and Tank felt the hair on the back of her neck raise more than once as she thought of what she had seen in the sewers. She kept her rifle shouldered, however, shining her light into every corner she could, double-checking everything. She did _not_ want to be thrown again like she had.

Eventually, they reached the entrance to the dig. Sarge ordered Mac to stay and guard the path of retreat- if they scared anything up, then it would be driven straight to him. Then Sarge, Reaper, and Tank headed deeper into the preparation center.

The 'mudroom' was just that- muddy. Red-brown and dark brown and every shade in between, interspersed with tables that held various items such as tools and pottery and fossils. Tank, if she'd had the time, energy, and will to stop for a closer look, would have been fascinated and captivated. However, she was more preoccupied with making sure she didn't get killed, at the moment.

Unfortunately for Tank, however, her pain meds began to wear off all too soon.

Sarge split off from Tank and Reaper shortly after, and the couple moved down the way toward a series of tables with pictures tacked above them. Tank blinked when she saw Sam's smiling face in a photo where she looked to be surrounded by a dig, and then she blinked again when she saw a pair of people that looked quite a bit like Reaper and Sam.

It was a group photo, but underneath it was written, in neat handwriting, _Prof. A. Grimm; Prof. D. Grimm._

The fact that Reaper wrenched himself away after a second, his expression pained, only drove that realization home. Tank looked at him with pity and empathy. Then she reached out to pull the pictures down from the wall, holding them in her hand and studying them.

The picture of Sam couldn't have been that old, since she looked much like she currently did. Tank placed it at maybe one to two years ago. Sam was in the middle of a dig, looking happy and excited.

Then Tank turned to the other photo.

There were a number of people in that picture, but Tank was only focused on two of them. The man had blond hair and blue eyes, a long, oval face. He wore spectacles, and the look of him suggested great intelligence. The woman had brown hair- the same color as Reaper's- and brown eyes, a shade remarkably similar to Tank's own brandy-brown gaze. The woman had elfin features: wide eyes, full lips, a heart-shaped face. Now Tank knew which parent Reaper looked the most like.

A sudden burst of pain from her stomach, however, had Tank gasping, and the pictures fluttered out of her grasp as an answering pang rang out from her back. She fell to her knees, unable to support herself, and curled over in an effort to stem the agony.

"Tank?" Reaper's voice sounded far away, as though he was speaking to her through a filter of some kind. She heard bootsteps, and then his light hit the floor in front of her. Tank heard him gasp, and then a second later he knelt in front of her, his hands gentle as he braced her.

"Tank, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice low and worried despite the calmness he forced into it.

"C-C-Can-" she stuttered, and then her breath whooshed out of her as her gut clenched. She curled over further with a soft moan, trembling.

Tank retched as the lingering stench of the sewers hit her nose, and she gagged as her stomach revolted. Tank couldn't halt the expulsion of liquid.

She vomited onto the mudroom floor.

Reaper was a really good husband, she mused through the haze. He didn't leave her side through any of it, but gingerly rubbed her shoulders and held her up out of the mess.

It ended in a matter of minutes, and Reaper gently guided her away from the waste to lean up against the nearest table leg. Tank just groaned, resting her head back against the metal. Reaper pressed his hand to her sweaty face.

"You're too warm," he observed grimly. Tank swallowed with some difficulty and brushed him off.

"'M fine," she slurred, then grimaced and turned to the side to spit onto the floor. "Tastes nasty. Like blood."

Tank saw Reaper stiffen and begin to turn, but she grabbed his arm, bringing his attention back to her.

"John," she murmured. "We both know what's there, and we both know what it means. I'm going to go back to the entrance of the dig, keep guard with Mac. You don't really need me here, anyway."

"Go on," Reaper said, his voice hoarse. "Go get some rest."

Tank nodded, and put her hand out to her side. Her fingers brushed the photos she had dropped, and she quietly picked them up, disguising it with using her arm as extra support to get to her feet. Once she was standing, Reaper stood beside her, and Tank looked up at him for a second before tugging him down for a tender half-embrace.

"Be safe," she whispered into his ear. Then she planted a soft, lingering kiss below his jaw and pulled away, slouching as she made her way back to the entrance of the dig.

When she was out of sight, Reaper shone his gunlight on the puddle of vomit she had left. It gleamed the bright red of freshly-spilt blood in the white light.

Meanwhile, Tank arrived back at the entrance to the dig and leaned heavily against the wall, tucking the photographs into one of the pockets of her vest. Mac cast her a sympathetic, questioning glance when he saw the drawn look to her face.

"Are you in pain?" he queried, voice uninflected. Tank gasped a couple times, and then nodded. Mac said nothing more, but turned his attention back to the darkness around them.

Several long moments passed in silence. Tank felt herself beginning to drift off. She knew that she had finally begun to bleed internally, which was the cause of her fatigue. She pinched herself awake with some regret and looked up when a soft noise suddenly met her ears, and the sharp smell of vinegar hit her nose.

She was just in time to see Mac's head go flying through the air, parted from his shoulders, to land on the floor next to her as his body slumped. Tank shot upright, adrenaline overriding her shock and fear, and leveled her assault rifle at the thing that had killed Mac.

However, it moved with inhuman speed, faster than Tank could aim. An instant later, there was a triumphant roar, an agonizing impact against Tank's chest- she felt something give- and she had the brief sensation of flight before blinding pain erupted from her back, head, and stomach. She couldn't even scream from the lack of air in her lungs.

Her ears were ringing, but her eyes cleared just enough to see the creature retreating into the shadows at the far end of the hallway.

A few seconds later, Reaper and Sarge came barreling around the corner, guns out. Tank coughed, tasting blood.

"D-D-D-" she stammered out, pointing. "D-Demon-!" She gasped, her insides twisting and blazing and _Oh, God, this is even worse than before!_

Reaper and Sarge were standing there, in the glow from the corridor light overhead, Mac's blood pooling around their feet. Tank grimaced, choking slightly on her own lifeline before she spat it out onto the ground. Her neck prickled, and it seemed that Reaper and Sarge felt it, too. They went together to where they were back-to-back, half-crouching.

Something- more than one, it felt like- was watching the three of them from the shadows.

Tank painfully lifted her gun, gasping slightly when something inside of her shifted with a burst of pain, and tossed her light into the shadows above and around her.

"Got anything?" she gasped out.

"Nothing," Sarge breathed, his eyes questing about for any sign of the thing they were tracking. "You?"

"Nothing," Reaper whispered. Tank saw his gaze land on Mac's body. "Shit."

"Still glad you came?" Sarge asked quietly, but the sentence, which would have normally been spoken with a wry lilt, came out hushed and wary. Tank couldn't hear whether Reaper answered or not.

"I got something," he said after a second. "In the shadows- on my three."

Tank heard Sarge take a breath, and she prepared to aim where Reaper had directed.

"Ten degrees crossfire on either side," Sarge whispered. "Sweep the shadows."

Tank almost hoped they would hit her on accident, end her agony, but she knew that they were too good to do that.

"I'll take the left side," Reaper breathed.

"I've got the right."

And then they opened up, bullets tearing through the shadows. Tank could see the outline of something big, something inhuman, in the strobing light of the muzzle flashes from Reaper's machine gun and Sarge's autorifle.

"We're in pursuit!" Sarge shouted as the thing howled and dashed off down the D4 tunnel. "Everyone meet at the airlock!"

He and Reaper dashed off down the tunnel, but Tank didn't have the strength to run after them. She panted a few times, trying to get up, but she was unsuccessful, and a burst of agony from her midsection stayed her momentarily. It was only then that Tank managed to look down at herself to see what was causing the pain.

A thin, metal rod of some kind was sticking out of her gut, just between her lowest ribs on the right side of her abdomen. It had speared straight through her flak vest, through her liver, and out the other side... a fatal wound.

_Wow,_ she mused dazedly, _Killed by a pipe. What a way to go..._

Then she remembered Reaper, and the fact that he was heading into the unknown, chasing something that could single-handedly take a person's head off in one swipe.

Tank knew exactly how difficult it was to decapitate somebody. It usually involved the use of a sharp implement, of course, but it was a backbreaking ordeal if the executioner was doing it bare-handed. After all, the skeletal structure of the neck- the vertebrae and clavicles and scapulae- was actually rather small in relation to the muscles that bound it. A full six inches- give or take, depending on the person- of muscle, sinew, tendon, and other connective tissue held the head on the shoulders. It took tremendous force to literally rip a person's head off.

Just the fact that the monster that Reaper and Sarge were chasing _had_ that kind of brute strength...

Tank shivered, and it wasn't just from the fact that she was bleeding out all over the mudroom floor.

_I can't die, yet!_

A yell of agony and frustration built in her throat and she finally forced herself to lean forward, bringing the rod with her. Tank felt herself choking again, and coughed. Blood dribbled out of her mouth, down her chin, down her neck, to soak into her jumpsuit and vest. At the same time, it briefly gushed from the wound in her side, dripping down her front in a red river.

However, the pipe easily detached from the wall after Tank worked it a little bit. She fell forward onto her hands and knees, feeling pain explode from her wound, her cancer, her head, and her ribs and spine. Coldness was creeping up on her. Tank swallowed back blood.

She was dying, just how she had wanted... but she was still worried for Reaper...

_Reaper!_ she thought frantically. She struggled to get to her feet, but couldn't stand straight. The impact with the wall and pipe must have fractured a couple more of her vertebrae, and her vision swam horribly. Concussion? Likely. Tank only paused long enough to grab Mac's dogtags and tuck them into her vest before she took the first lurching step down the D4 tunnel.

Tank could hear Sarge talking to Pinky through the comms, but she couldn't really make out what they were saying over the static and the ringing in her ears. Shivering, she just made her way down the long hall toward the atrium. Soon her thoughts began to slow, and Tank moved on autopilot, focusing for the most part on putting one foot in front of the other.

Just as she reached the atrium, she heard a brief scream over the comm, and stiffened before she realized that it was Destroyer and that she could do nothing about it. Tank continued across the atrium, heading for the infirmary.

_Gotta make sure Sam and Duke are okay,_ she thought hazily.

It seemed to take an eternity until she finally spotted the nanowall up ahead, marking the entrance to the infirmary. Tank could vaguely make out the blurred shape of something stuck in it; she pushed it aside and swiped her access card, clumsily punching in the code before pushing through the nanowall into the med lab.

Duke and Sam were standing over a gurney when Tank entered the room. On the cot was the half-dissected corpse of the creature that had killed Goat. Tank glanced over at the observation room where they had put Goat. She was startled to find what looked like blood and brain matter spattered across the window.

"W-What-?" she stuttered. Duke and Sam jumped, the Marine in question leveling his rifle at Tank before he realized who it was. Then his eyes widened as he noticed her state, and he rushed over to her.

"Tank!" he exclaimed. Tank groaned and slumped into his arms as the wound in her gut was aggravated. Duke sealed the nanowall behind her and led her over to an empty gurney.

"Sam!" Duke called, but Sam was already there, pulling over an IV drip and heart monitor. Tank choked on blood again as he lifted her to sit on the side of the gurney.

"Got a pipe through my liver," Tank gasped, bending over as she clutched onto Duke for support. Her next words came out as a moan. "'S fatal..."

"Where's John?" demanded Sam as she hooked Tank up to the IV.

"Don't know," Tank whispered. Her voice gurgled as she spoke, and more blood dripped down her chin to splatter on the floor. "Was gonna go find him... but couldn't make it..."

"Duke, hold on tight to her," Sam instructed. "We need to get that pipe out and seal up the wounds."

Tank felt Duke nod, and a second later, he laced his arms around her underneath her shoulders. Tank shivered in the brotherly embrace.

"D-Duke," she stuttered incoherently. "T-Take care of J-John for m-me-_AUGH!_"

Her plea ended in a piercing, ragged scream of pain, and her whole body spasmed once as Sam quickly removed the pipe.

Then Tank slumped further against Duke, her ears ringing and her vision skewing as she fought unconsciousness. Some vague sensations in the back of her mind told her that somebody was talking to her, and something was being put on her back and sprayed on her front, but she wasn't able to really distinguish one feeling from the mass of blinding pain she was engulfed in.

Then it was over. All over.

Tank blinked her eyes open again, the ringing in her ears fading enough that she could make out what Duke was saying. His mouth was right next to her ear, his breath warm against her skin.

"-on, Tank, you gotta hang on," Duke was pleading. "Gotta hang on, 'til Reaper gets here, or he'll pull his 'Grimm Reaper' stunt on my ass and then he'll go to hell and drag you back just so's he can pummel you..."

"L-Loud'n'clear, Duke," Tank slurred out chokingly, barely audible. Her whole body was shaking like a leaf in the wind. "Whatja do t'me?"

"Tank!" Duke exclaimed, relief in his voice. Then he answered her question. "Sam pulled the rod out of your stomach and sprayed the wounds with skin sealant to stop the bleeding."

"Won't be enough," Tank coughed, "internal damage is too much... 'N I'm dying anyway..."

"What do you mean?" demanded Sam. It was only then that Tank noticed the other woman standing to Tank's right. "Answer me, Amanda."

"Cancer," Tank said with a quiet moan. "Terminal pancreatic cancer. Diagnosed last year... too far along. Chemo and radio didn't work. D'cided to get killed on the battlefield 'stead o' fightin' a losin' battle 'n a hospital bed..."

There was a pause.

"God," Sam breathed at last. "That's why John was so worried about you... and your collapse..."

"Wouldna lasted another six months, anyway," Tank said, finally getting her breathing rate back to a regulated level.

"But-"

"Sam," Tank said, and her voice was tired. "Everybody dies, someday. Some people just go sooner than others. Y'see, it's all about what you do with your life, how you spend it, that matters."

"And are you happy with how you spent your life?" prompted Duke. Tank turned her head so that she could rest her cheek on his shoulder where he still had her in a hug.

"Wish I coulda had more time," she murmured, "but yeah, I think I'm happy with how it turned out."

It almost sounded as though she was commenting on a completed painting.

A few minutes passed, and Tank was gradually able to straighten up enough to sit on her own.

"Come on, Duke, let me go," Tank whispered. "I still got some life left in me. Gotta use it to the last drop."

"How?" Duke asked. He let go of her and watched as she sat there, trembling, on the side of the gurney.

"'M gonna go find my husband," Tank said. "Then I'm gonna go kick some demon ass."

She paused, a sudden thought hitting her, and reached into her vest pocket. Her fingers brushed the tags she had gotten off of Mac, and she withdrew them, staring down at the words engraved on the thin metal plates.

"It got Mac," she said quietly. "Fucking ripped his head right off his damned shoulders with its bare hand..."

Tank looked up at Duke in time to see her friend blanch. Tank glanced back down at the tag, and then pressed it into the palm of Duke's hand.

"You're our keeper of the dead, now, Duke," Tank whispered. "Least 'til Reaper gets back. Take care of Mac, Goat, and me."

Tank reached up underneath her jumpsuit and pulled out her own dogtags. Looking down at them, she carefully removed one from the chain before she handed that one to Duke, too. She gazed into his eyes meaningfully for a second before she reached up and tucked the remaining tag back inside her jumpsuit.

_Fatalist?_ she queried to herself as she gingerly slid off the gurney to stand on her own two feet. _Maybe. Realist? Definitely._

The IV drip came out of her arm with a practiced motion. _Thank God for powerful, fast-working painkillers..._

"And Duke?" she called, seeing him tuck the tags into his vest out of the corner of her eye. "On the off chance that I die here, I just want you to know something..."

Duke turned to her and blinked. "What's that?"

Tank looked at him. "You've been a great friend... and you know that pair of bunny slippers and the fleece blanket I have stashed in my locker? Those are my inheritance to you."

Duke stared at her for a second before the wry smirk Tank had been hiding twitched her lips. Duke chuckled and shook his head.

"Bitch," he muttered affectionately. Tank gave him a tired, painful smile.

"Love you, too, asshole. Love you, too."

Tank turned to limp out of the room again. However, she was halted in her progress when the very people she'd been planning to go find came in. Sarge was first, dragging Destroyer's limp body, and then came Reaper, pulling a bodybag behind him.

"Destroyer?" Duke gasped, dashing around Tank to take Destroyer from Sarge. "I got 'im, I got 'im!"

"Portman, too," Reaper intoned, dragging the bag over toward the gurney Tank had just recently been sitting on. She followed his progress with her eyes as the Kid came in behind her.

"What the fuck's that?" asked Sarge. Tank glanced at him to see him staring at the blood on the observation window.

"Goat," Sam said shakily. Tank wondered what was going through her sister-in-law's mind. "He killed himself."

_That_ got Tank's attention. Her mouth fell slightly open with some incredulity. Sarge was looking cold and skeptical, too.

"What do you mean he killed himself? He was already dead."

Suddenly, Tank didn't want to know, and Sam didn't answer. Instead, she walked over to Destroyer's body, nudged Duke out of the way, and began to check Destroyer's neck for something. Tank wasn't sure what.

"It's Goat's," Duke said, his voice broken by silent sobs. "He was turnin' into one of these _motherfuckers_ and killed himself!"

Reaper shook his head. "He's dead again, then."

He gestured to the bodybag. "That's what's left of the thing we were chasing. And we found two more dead scientists in the dig. 'Clay', and a balding guy with glasses."

"Doctor Thurman," Sam muttered. She suddenly slumped to sit on the floor, knees drawn up, rubbing her eyes, seeming ten years older than she really was. Thinking.

"Did you check their necks?"

Reaper shot her a bewildered, incredulous look.

"Were there wounds on their necks?" she persisted, sounding like a weary mother explaining something to a child. Totally condescending.

"They were dead, alright?" Reaper snapped irritably. "We were conducting a firefight, not a fucking autopsy."

Tank reached up to rub her aching head, and briefly glimpsed Sarge doing the same.

_There's too many variables, here. Too many things that are unaccounted for. Too many things that could go wrong... _have_ gone wrong._

"We came here to find six scientists," Sarge intoned, and his voice was more grave and frosty than Tank had ever heard it. "We got four known dead and Willits is probably KIA down in that sewer. So all we're missing is Carmack."

Sarge turned to Duke. "Carmack shown up, yet?"

"Oh, he's shown up, alright," Duke gritted out, glancing up at the thing stuck in the door. Tank followed his gaze, and then did a double-take.

_Son of a bitch... That thing is Carmack?_

It didn't seem possible... but maybe... Tank had never seen anything this extreme in any of her various tours of duty. It was mind-boggling. A sudden thought hit her, and she stooped painfully next to Destroyer, gently tugging one of his dog tags off of its chain. She then solemnly handed it to Duke and moved over to repeat the process with what was left of Portman.

Even he still had one scorched and blackened tag left.

And so Duke had Mac's, Goat's, Portman's, and Destroyer's dog tags... plus hers.

_How many more of us are going to die?_ she questioned, staring hollowly through the observation window at what was left of Goat. _I was supposed to be the only one who wouldn't return home, but now..._

A shiver crept down Tank's spine, and she hissed, doubling over, as it jostled her broken bones. The wound in her stomach flared with pain, also. It was several seconds before she was able to straighten up and tune back in to the conversation.

Nobody had noticed the episode, thankfully.

"What are you people working on up here?" Sarge demanded angrily.

Sam hesitated, and she seemed to be pondering something.

"In _my_ part of the facility," she said, "we analyzed bones and artifacts." She nodded toward the thing- Tank thought she'd heard Sam call it an imp- on the gurney. "We weren't doing _anything_ like this."

Sarge was really angry, now. Tank could tell it from the way his eyes lost their emotion while he gestured to the thing that had been Carmack.

"What the hell is that?"

Sam sighed, looking weary. "It must be a genetic mutation of some kind, maybe environmental or viral. I just need time to figure it out, stop it, reverse the condition..."

"Carmack's condition is irreversible," Sarge said. Tank noticed a particularly sharp flatness in his eyes as he looked over to the imp stuck in the nanowall. Tank had only noticed it once before, when Seraph had been viciously reprimanded for the clusterfuck in Siberia. Sarge had made up his mind, and when Sarge got like that, the shit came down hard.

Tank just groaned inwardly as Sarge stepped closer to the imp. Somehow, she just _knew_ what was coming.

Sam watched him closely. "Not necessarily. Perhaps we could replicate hyperplasia, create antioncogenes..."

"It's irreversible," Sarge said, voice full of icy conviction, pulling his pistol from its holster. He shoved it underneath the imp's chin, and Sam barely had the time to scream a protest before Sarge pulled the trigger and blew its brains out. They slid down the nanowall to pool on the floor in a puddle of black and grey.

"Because Carmack's condition is that he is dead," Sarge continued, voice even and casual. Sam just stared at him in horror and shock.

Tank knew why. Sarge had not only killed an 'it', just now- whatever had been left of Carmack had been trapped inside that creature's skull, so Sarge had essentially just killed Carmack, too.

_But really,_ Tank thought, eyeing the bleeding imp as she tried to justify Sarge's actions and stifle her own pain, _it was a mercy killing. There isn't gonna be enough time to reverse the transformation. We don't _have_ enough time._

"Kid, Duke," Sarge said, "go back to the dig and make sure those other scientists are really dead."

Duke put down Destroyer's body. The Kid looked at Sarge, and then looked at the dead imp before swallowing and hurrying out the nanowall, Duke at his heels.

Tank shivered at the coldness of Sarge's glare as he turned it onto Sam.

"I have lost _four_ soldiers," he gritted out, advancing menacingly toward her. "What are you people experimenting with up here?"

Sam just stared at him, looking remarkably like a deer caught in the headlights. Sarge's glare sharpened to a deadly point.

"I'm not going to ask you again," he threatened, voice deceptively calm. Sam was visibly shaken when she replied.

"I told you," she said, voice quaking slightly, "this is an archaeological research center."

She must have seen the disbelieving, angry frown forming on Sarge's face.

"You think I'm lying to you?" she asked. Her face was white with shock, her eyes hot with fury, voice sharp. She paused. "You think I'm hiding something."

_Don't say anything else, Sam,_ Tank silently pleaded. _Just keep quiet._

"I'm telling the truth!" Sam protested to Reaper and Sarge's skeptical looks. She turned to Reaper. "I'm telling the truth, John!"

Tank finally drew herself away from the wall, managing to stand relatively straight through the agony of her back, ribs, stomach, and head.

"I believe her," Tank stated. Every gaze in the room fell on her, and Tank saw relief budding in Sam's. Tank's eyes, however, were cold as she recalled what had happened in the sewer, the dig, what had become of Destroyer and Portman and all the bodies they had found.

Drying blood on her chin cracked and flaked away.

"I think that she believes that she is telling the truth, as far as she can see it," Tank continued, voice a quiet whisper that lashed more than a shout ever would for all the frost that she put into it. "However, a perceived truth is not always the reality of the situation. There can be other factors that she is unaware of."

Tank's cool gaze landed on Sam, more serious than it had been in a long time. "Sam, I'm only going to ask this one time, and I need you to answer me truthfully. What is on the hard drives?"

Sam blinked. "What?"

"What's on the MICDIs, Sam?" Reaper prompted, coming around Sam to stare his sister in the eye. "What were you downloading? What were you sent to protect?"

"The research data!" Sam protested, her pitch rising. Tank's eyes narrowed.

"You sound desperate and panicked, Sam, and that only makes you more suspect," she said, voice a sibilant hiss. "How about a more specific answer?"

Sam's hazel eyes, so much like Reaper's, flicked between the three Marines, wide and frightened. Tank saw her gaze slide over to the Carmack-imp's slumped form, shaped like a question mark where it was stuck in the nanowall. Reaper advanced slightly on his sister, his expression, voice, and glare uncompromising.

"Research into _what?_"

* * *

_**2046 A.D. - UAC Research Center Olduvai, Mars - 0445 hours**_

Tank hadn't been to Carmack's lab before Portman's death, but now that she was there, she promptly decided that she hadn't missed much.

_Though_, she mused fuzzily, _I wouldn't have minded seeing whatever thing blew that hole in the wall in action... That would've been _sweeeeet...

She was standing over Sam's shoulder as the younger woman scrolled through lists of data, searching for the tapes documenting Carmack's most recent research. Tank was beginning to have trouble staying upright due to the blood loss that came from her internal bleeding, not to mention the exhaustion from being up for almost forty-eight hours plus sustaining a concussion, three cracked ribs, three fractured vertebrae, _and_ her cancer's continuing influence.

_Really, am I the only one in here who's cold? Who turned down the thermostat?_

Reaper was standing over Sam's other shoulder, and Sarge, who was the tallest out of all of them, was standing right behind her.

Finally, Sam found the right files, and pulled them up. Sarge and Reaper, Tank could tell, were trying to keep watch on the room while they got a look at the tapes at the same time. Not easy... and how did they expect to stand sentry against things that could literally pop out of _anywhere?_

"_-subject was injected with study agent at 00.03. DS solution used with ten micrograms IV bolus-_" It was Carmack's voice, filtering out of the weak computer speakers.

"Here we go," Reaper muttered.

"_Elevated heart rate, attributable to subject anxiety..._"

Tank watched with a detached sort of horror as the video feed progressed, first showing the subject, Curtis Stahl, being lowered into a pit, and then the horrific changes that began to take over him... changes into one of the monsters that they had been chasing and battling the whole night.

_Has it really only been about five hours since we came to Olduvai?_ Tank wondered briefly, but the thought didn't stick in her mind for long; she couldn't seem to concentrate.

Most of what the others were saying around her fell on deaf ears. Tank looked around the lab with swirling vision. Her thoughts raced in her mind, flitting from one to another, some of them the most random things she could have thought of at the time. Tank didn't notice or care, though.

_Why're my knees weak?_ she briefly wondered, just before a loud clatter met her ears and a burst of pain seared through her entire body. Tank couldn't cry out, though, _No, not enough energy to do that._

Her vision whirled again, and suddenly she saw Reaper, Sam, and Sarge bending over her. Tank blinked languidly.

_What're you saying?_ she wondered. Her eyelids were drooping. She could blurrily see Reaper's features contort, saw him shout something, but everything had gone strangely silent. Tank dimly realized that she was dying; that her time was up. She didn't feel anything more than an unconcerned calmness, though.

"John," she managed to breathe, looking up into her husband's eyes. She saw him turn to Sam, who whirled away and grabbed something off of a nearby table. A second later, she returned with a syringe. Tank's field of vision bobbed slightly; she was vaguely aware of Reaper stripping her out of her vest and unzipping her jumpsuit.

"L-L-Love," Tank tried to tell him, but he didn't seem to hear her.

_Put some backbone into it, Marine!_ her mind screamed at her. It sounded suspiciously like her old DI.

"John," she said. This time, Reaper seemed to hear her, because his eyes met hers, so sad and knowing. Tank coughed.

"Let me go, John," she managed to get out. She could see his expression morph into something desperate, furious. He mouthed something, but Tank shook her head slightly, swallowing. Her breath grew short.

"'S my time," she gasped out. She didn't take her eyes off of Reaper's, slowly rocking her head from side to side. "'S my time."

_So cold... Am I back in Alaska?_

She paused, vaguely registering it as Reaper said something to Sam. Then Tank saw Sam lean over her, felt something pierce down through her breastbone into her heart. Tank ignored this, though. It was unimportant.

She wanted the last thing she ever saw to be Reaper's eyes.

"'S my time, John," she breathed. "Lemme go... Knew this was comin'..." She paused to draw a wheezing breath, sight dimming. "Love you... but lemme go..."

She closed her eyes, took as deep a breath as her body would allow. Tried to comfort him. "You leave me speechless... when you talk to me..."

She blinked her eyes open again, managing to find Reaper. "...Y' manage to disarm me... my soul is shining through... can' help but s'rrender..."

Her breath hissed out. "My ev'rything... to you..."

Then everything exploded with pain, pain, _pain,_ like she had never known it before, even more intense than the past few hours had been with the cancer and the broken bones and the impalement wound through her stomach, and she sucked in a frightened and startled lungful of air.

But no, no, it was-but-wasn't pain, it was more like feeling everything at once- every nerve ending, every cell in her body howled with outrage and fury as something, _something,_ invaded it.

She was no longer cold. Instead, a wave of blazing, unbearable heat scorched through her, hotter even than the desert she and Reaper had once had that assassination mission in. Then another... and another, and another, coming faster and faster and faster until she didn't think she could bear it any longer. Her back arched impossibly, her fingers twisted, her mouth went into some kind of gaping grimace, and her throat clenched, making it impossible for her to even scream, to even vent some of the pain she was feeling. Something was happening to her, something unnatural, something from beyond the physical realm that she was currently stranded in. Something was entering her, fusing with her cells.

Her body slowly began to swell, not terribly noticeably, but her muscles were firming, bulking, recovering from their recent atrophy into something even better than they had ever been before. Her clothing became a little tighter around her, but it was loose in the first place due to her recent anorexia, and so it didn't burst at the seams. Her very bones felt heavier, but the pain in her broken vertebrae and ribs and skull was fading, fading, dissolving into the inconceivable heat that rolled through her. For a split second, her overloaded mind thought that her body was healing...

But no- it was too much, too sudden, too complete. The pain was beyond anything she had ever imagined- and she had imagined a lot before, had experienced a lot before- it was a universe filled with nothing but sheer and blinding agony.

She couldn't take it. Not mentally or physically. She searched for a way out, but she wasn't going to live through it, nothing could, it was unbearable, incomprehensible, and she just wanted it to end-

And then it stopped. Everything stopped. All the pain stopped, all the unbelievable agony stopped... her heart stopped.

Then she was falling, falling, _falling_. Her body relaxed and collapsed to the floor with a dull thump. The world around her dissolved into a murky blur, and all she could see was a single face, hovering above her.

Something glittered, crystalline, in the eyes. She couldn't remember who it was or _what_ it was or why she felt so sad at seeing the face's pain, but she didn't have long to wonder, because everything was growing darker, darker, _darker-_

She slowly released the long breath she had been holding- and didn't take another.

That breath had been her last.

* * *

_**Disclaimer:**__ I only own Tank… and now, not even her. *sniff*_

_Still settling into my last semester of college… and very grateful for the long weekend. Though, I have to say, I'm totally ECSTATIC about the excellent reviewer response for this last chapter. Wow!_

_Chapter notes: Again, when I first started picturing how this chapter would go, I tried to find a way to make Mac survive, and Tank was like, "Hell, no, bitch, I can't move that fast after I've already been thrown into a wall!" and so Mac got it, too. Tank's got her Midwestern accent going on, too. :) And she's really mad at me, too. You know, for killing her off? Yeah._

_*ducks knives and bullets thrown at her by Tank, Reaper, and her readers and runs away screaming*_

_Thank you so much to all the EPICALLY AWESOME people who reviewed the last chapter! This includes __**Bella-doll, Crye 4 Me, XRandom TheoryX, Anna Banana, Babygirl17, **__and __**Kakashi-luver**__. Oh, gosh, I'm astounded at the amount of reviews I got this time. O.O I think 6 in one chapter is a record for this story. *does a happy-dance*_

_Next chapter should be posted 8-30-10, provided all goes well._

_-__**P**__ortrait of a __**S**__cribe_


	42. 2046 AD UACRC Olduvai Mars 0455 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation."  
-Kahlil Gibram_

__

**Chapter 41.**

* * *

_**2043 A.D. - ? - ? hours**_

"_Yesss! Leave time's almost here! Woo-hoo!" Tank's jubilant shout rang through the barracks, accompanied by the stamp of booted feet as the squad trooped down the stairs to the showers after a long day of especially grueling training. Reaper smiled faintly as he took a sip of the ice water he had retrieved for himself, only to start choking as the lingering effects of his pneumonia decided to show themselves. It didn't help when the water he had just imbibed shot out of his nose, and soon Tank was laughing at him, as was the rest of the squad._

"_Yeah, yeah," he coughed, "laugh it up, you- hack- hairballs."_

"Fur_balls, John," Tank drawled as she went over and flopped onto her bunk. "_Fur_balls. If you're going to quote somebody, get it right."_

_The glare he shot her could have frozen Old Faithful. "Well, excuuuuuse _me, _Princess," he countered in a whiny drawl that could outmatch hers on any given day. "But I wasn't raised with a Goddamn Star Wars junkie as a best friend."_

_Tank just grinned, the jab rolling right off of her. "Do you realize how much you just sounded like Link in that really, _really_ bad 70s Legend of Zelda anime?"_

_A chorus of groans echoed out to her from the locker room._

"_No, Tank, no!" groaned Duke over the sound of the showers. "Don't go over to the Geek Side!"_

"_Who you kiddin'?" she shouted back. "The nerd is unusually strong in this one."_

"_Noooooooo!" Duke's trailing yell could have given Mark Hamill a run for his money._

_Tank just cackled and grinned as Reaper rolled his eyes at her. Both of them were sweaty and dust-covered as the rest of the team, but they would wait until the other men got out for their turns at the showers. It was partially because Tank had always bathed separately from the men, of course, but she needed help to tend to the still-healing scars on her back and stomach, so the task of aiding her naturally fell to Reaper._

_It took another fifteen minutes for the men to finish, and then Tank followed Reaper into the locker room. When they entered, they headed for their lockers that were straight ahead of the door. To their left were the sinks and the cubicles that contained the toilets. Along the right wall were the showers, a simple row of showerheads mounted on the concrete with a drain that ran along the porcelain-tiled floor. Two long benches sat facing each other between the two rows of lockers, with another bench lining the lockers by the showers._

_Tank stopped first at her locker to grab her toiletries and med-kit, and then stripped out of her clothes as Reaper closed the door behind them, cutting off the sound of the squad's chatter. Tank gave him a grateful smile and went to start the shower running._

"_Are your wounds feeling any better?" Reaper's sudden question made Tank blink, and she looked over at her husband as he rounded the lockers with his own supplies in tow. Tank glanced down at her belly, where the bandages covering her wounds stood out in stark contrast to her tanned skin._

"_Better than they were," she told him. "They itch, and ache, mostly. When it gets cold out, they start hurting, and then they eventually go numb."_

_Reaper blinked at her. "Numb? That can't be good."_

_Tank shrugged, her expression carefully neutral. "Caboose said there might've been some nerve damage. I'm not really all that surprised."_

_Reaper was quiet for a long moment. When he suddenly pulled her to him, pressing his lips to hers, Tank gave a squeak of surprise before realization washed over her. As she put her arms around his neck, the first two tears she had shed since that fateful mission in Siberia trailed down her cheeks and neck to trace their way over her collarbones and breasts before finally vanishing where her chest was pressed to Reaper's own bare skin. She didn't care that the contact was making her wounds ache, or that the way she had her arms raised was pulling the still-healing scars and straining the new skin stretched across them._

_For however brief a time, all there was was the comfort of Reaper's solid presence, driving away the demons of her mind._

* * *

_**2046 A.D. - UAC Research Center Olduvai, Mars - 0455 hours**_

For a long moment, there was dead silence in Carmack's office after Tank's body suddenly went completely and totally limp.

Reaper didn't breathe, staring down at her unmoving, unblinking, _unbreathing_ form with wide, disbelieving eyes that swam with tears. Slowly he reached forward to lay his shaking left hand against Tank's cheek, gently tapping.

"T-Tank?" His voice was a strangled whisper. No response.

"Amanda?" He almost couldn't get it out around the lump in his throat. He tapped her cheek again, but Tank's eyes were glazed, staring past him into something that he couldn't see. Reaper's breath hitched, and he choked quietly.

_This can't be happening, she can't be dead! She just can't!_

But Tank didn't respond to anything he did. Sam felt for a pulse, and came up without anything. Several moments passed, and Reaper did all he could to get a response out of his wife, but deep down he knew it was no use.

She was gone. Dead.

"No!" he choked out. A silent sob hitched his breath, and he couldn't stop the next, or the next.

John Grimm broke down, slouching over the body of his wife as he gathered her limp corpse into his arms, clutching her to his chest, gently rocking them back and forth.

He didn't hear it when the Kid reported in, didn't hear it when Pinky sent an SOS. He only snapped out of it when a large hand landed on his shoulder and pulled him away from Tank's body. He whipped around, snarling through his sobs, and blindly launched a punch at whomever it was that had dared part him from his wife.

Reaper's fist struck Sarge right in the middle of his flak vest... or would have, had the older Marine not been expecting it. Sarge dodged easily to the side and returned with a backhand that knocked Reaper to the floor with a resounding smack.

For a second, there was utter silence in the office. Then Reaper blinked up at Sarge, eyes wide with shock and grief, and recognition came to him.

"Sarge?" he croaked. Sarge looked down on Reaper, expression grave. Reaper saw a flash of grief go through those dark brown eyes before it was locked behind an iron wall.

"Get the fuck up, Reaper," Sarge growled. "We got a job to do."

Reaper took a few deep breaths, and looked over at Sam, who was bending over Tank's body. She had closed Tank's eyes, at least...

Reaper sat up, got to his knees, and reached over to Tank, searching for her dog tags. He pulled the chain out... as well as the golden cross that he had given her for her birthday.

Reaper's throat constricted at the sight of it, and he almost broke down again. However, the sound of a rifle being reloaded behind him kept him in the present, and he gently unclasped the cross from around Tank's neck. Then he latched it around his own neck.

It hung down to rest at the base of his throat, in the hollow where his collarbones met his breastbone, but it was a bit of a tight fit. Tank had had a much thinner neck than he did.

Reaper reached for her dog tags, but stopped, realizing that there was only one there.

"Where's her dog tag?" he whispered. Sam covered his hand with hers, and looked up into her brother's grieving hazel eyes, so much like her own.

"Duke has it," Sam told him softly. "She gave it to him earlier, in the infirmary... Now go, you need to help Pinky."

Reaper took a deep breath and lurched to his feet, tucking the cross down inside the collar of his jumpsuit. He cast one last glance at Tank's peaceful features.

He turned to Sam, fishing in his belt pouch until he found and withdrew Goat's comm unit.

"Keep the door locked," he told her, handing it to her. "Don't open it for anyone. This is Goat's comm. Use it if you need help."

Then he turned and followed Sarge out without another word.

John Grimm- the man- retreated behind a cold, hard shell, and Reaper- the soldier- emerged from his frigid blood.

They sped down the halls to the airlock, racing at breakneck speed down the dark corridors to the atrium, where they met up with Duke and the Kid.

"Use the grenade!" Sarge screamed at Pinky over the comm. "Use the goddamn grenade!"

Ahead was the Ark door, the same enormous, foot-and-a-half-of-ferrosteel door that Tank had noticed when they first arrived earlier that night. A gigantic hole was cut through the door- the edges of it were still smoking from the friction- and a rock-saw was lying on its side beside the door.

Reaper's blood ran colder than it had already been.

If those monsters had gotten to the Ark, then they'd gotten through to the UAC Facility at Papoose Lake- and there was a shitload of people there to transform, defenseless against the hordes and totally oblivious to the coming danger...

Pistol fire cracked from beyond the hole cut in the door. Then there came two flashes of color-challenged light, in quick succession.

_They've gone through the Ark!_

Sarge reached the door first, practically diving through the hole, gun leveled and ready to kick ass. The other three followed closely... only to find that the Ark chamber was deserted. Nothing in there moved, save for a grenade, twirling slowly on the floor where it had been dropped- unused.

They stared.

Duke was the first one to speak, voicing what they were all thinking. "Jesus. It's home. It's through."

Sarge took a deep breath, and when he spoke, his voice was almost a monotone.

"We gotta stop it before it gets out of the home-side compound," he said, and glanced around at Duke, Reaper, and the Kid. "Are we ready?"

But Reaper had more pressing concerns on his mind.

"Sam?" he called into his headset commlink. "Sam! Do you read me? Over."

Static crackled in reply. A sinking feeling of dread crept over him, weighted down his stomach. First this place had gotten his parents, and then his wife... now maybe his sister, too. He raised his voice in desperation. "_Sam! Do you read me? Over!_"

Still nothing.

Reaper and Sarge exchanged a glance. "She's not answering," Reaper murmured, horrified, and then turned back to his comm. "_Sam! Do you read me? Sam!_"

Sarge shook his head and started for the Ark. "Lock and load, Marines."

Aside, Duke turned to Sarge, his brow creased in confusion and concern. "Where's Tank?"

Sarge wouldn't meet his gaze. "She didn't make it. Now move out."

Reaper knew what that meant. It meant that Sarge was giving up on Sam, that he thought her a lost cause, that there was a bigger mission, a bigger _problem_, that they had to worry about, and that they couldn't waste time trying to find her when she could be dead or worse.

Reaper knew that he should go along with Sarge's difficult decision, but he wasn't sure if he was capable of it. Maybe she was dead- maybe not. He just couldn't leave her behind, no matter what the stakes. Sam was all he had left- he just didn't have it in him to abandon her.

That was when the lights around the Ark went dim... then flickered, came back on... and then switched off. The Marines were plunged into near-complete blackness.

"What the fuck is that?" Reaper heard Duke demand, as if anybody there had an answer. A soothing female voice echoed over the PA system.

"_System reboot..._"

And the lamps came back on. Sarge looked around at them all, all of them blinking in the sudden onrush of light.

"Quarantine is breached," he declared. "This mission is no longer containment. Double in, gather all the weapons and ammo you can find."

Heart pounding, Reaper yelled into his comm. "_Sam!_ Do you read me? Over!"

Static.

The soothing female voice came over the PA again. "_...Time required to begin renewed operation. Five minutes..._"

Reaper looked desperately over to Sarge, waiting.

"You got three," Sarge grudgingly allowed.

Reaper wasted no time, whirling back around and barreling through the hole. One of his belt pouches brushed against the smoking metal with a sizzling hiss, but then he was through and dashing down the hall to the airlock, making for Carmack's lab.

It seemed to take a lot longer to get there than he remembered, probably because he was anxious, looking over his shoulder every two steps, expecting something to come flying at him at any instant with ripping talons and a barbed tongue. And he was running full-tilt, too, pulling out all the stops, calling on all of his calisthenics training, weapon heavy in his hands, breath burning in his heaving lungs, heart pounding in his ears, limbs pumping.

"Sam!" he shouted, running into Carmack's genetics laboratory, gasping for air. He skidded to a stop, expecting an attack as he swept the room with his gunlight, ready to fire, but nothing came at him. The place was empty...

...and Tank's body was gone.

Reaper searched the room, too hyped on adrenaline to succumb to his grief again, looking for Sam. He even checked the slagged bathroom.

Sam was nowhere to be found. Not even a corpse. The demons might've taken her- but no, Reaper's senses were screaming at him that she was still alive, with the almost-cognitive bond that they had shared since birth. But where was she?

_Think, John!_ he screamed at himself. Then it hit him. _The infirmary!_

If she had finished here in the lab, she would have gone back to finish her research in the infirmary. He scolded himself for not going there first, and then scolded himself again for wasting precious time as he bolted out of the office and back the way he had come.

He raced down the hall, through the airlock, across the deserted atrium, down the other hall, and then pressed through the nanowall.

There she was, bending over a gurney, upon which sat a tray and a couple of cotton balls and syringes. Her face was rapt with concentration as she tried to puzzle something out, staring at the thing on the tray.

"Sam!" he rasped between gasps of air, lungs heaving as he skidded to a stop in front of her. "What the fuck are you doing? Why didn't you answer the comm?"

Sam didn't answer, continuing to frown down at the fleshy object and countering instead with a series of her own questions.

"Why did they take Goat but not Destroyer? Why Carmack but not Doctor Thurman?"

She turned around, heading for a solute spinner on the far side of the room. She picked up a vial, speaking as she filled it with a clear serum of some kind from a bottle sitting nearby.

"Lucy had the twenty-fourth chromosome, but she wasn't a monster," Sam said, the cogs in her brain turning as she capped the vial. "She died protecting her child, not devouring it. Why did the same chromosome that made her superhuman turn Stahl into a monster?"

"Sam, come _on!_" Reaper exclaimed, beckoning for her to follow him. Even now the rest of the team could be going through the Ark, and Reaper couldn't let the squadron down if they ended up facing the enemy right upon getting home.

"Just give me one minute-"

"We don't have a minute-"

"Then give me _ten seconds!_" Sam pleaded, coming over and looking imploringly into Reaper's eyes. She set her hands and the vial down on the gurney, leaning forward for emphasis. He met her gaze for a second, anxiously pondering- and then turned away in a kind of acquiescence.

But he turned back when she took up a biopsy needle, filled with a red-grey liquid that was unmistakably some kind of brain matter. In her other hand, she picked up a cotton ball, clamped between the prongs of a forceps.

"This is Carmack's tongue," Sam explained, gesturing at the thing on the tray.

"This is brain matter from Portman," she continued, pushing the plunger down while she held the needle over the cotton ball. Liquid gushed out over the white material, and then she put down the needle and moved the cotton ball over the thing on the tray.

The tongue jerked violently up toward the cotton ball with a hiss, startling both of them.

They barely noticed the brief dimming of the overhead lights as the power surged in them.

Sam took the cotton ball away and set it back down on the gurney. Then she picked up another forceps and cotton ball, and a different syringe.

"This is from Destroyer," she explained, squeezing the brain matter onto the cotton ball so that it dripped off, supersaturated. Then she trailed it over the tongue.

Reaper was stunned when there was absolutely no reaction. Sam even lowered the cotton ball to rub it against the tip of the tongue, but there was still nothing.

Sam ran through her theory as she set the forceps back down and walked over to fill another vial.

"There are genetic markers for aggressive and violent behavior," she explained. "The marker could be a specific neurotransmitter it's picking up on, a ganglion."

She glanced over, locked gazes with him for emphasis. "It's _choosing, _John. It's choosing who to infect."

They were running out of time. "Choosing?" Reaper demanded helplessly. "Choosing _how?_"

She considered it, capping the vial and sticking it into her medical pouch. "Latching on to numbers in the DNA code linked to..."

Reaper was getting anxious. "_Sam..._"

He looked at her skeptically. She had a fanciful look in her eye, and they _didn't have the time for this._

"Linked to what, Sam? To-" He cast around for a word. "-'evil'?"

It had been well over the ten seconds she'd requested, but Reaper's scientific mind- the part that he exercised when on leave- felt that this could be important. After all, if the creatures had gotten to the other side, knowing how they functioned could help the Marines destroy them.

Sam spoke rapid-fire. "Ten percent of the human genome is still unmapped. Some think it's the genetic blueprint for the soul. Maybe C-24 is what destroyed the Olduvaians. It would explain why some of them had to build the Ark, to escape to a new beginning."

She paused briefly. "Some, it made superhuman. Others, monsters."

And suddenly it all made sense.

"Goat was right," Reaper murmured, glancing over at the observation window, still splashed liberally with Goat's blood and brain matter. "Said we're all angels or devils... we become one or the other."

They looked at each other.

_Which are you?_ they silently asked.

Then realization hit Reaper, and he gasped. "Oh, God... Come on!"

"What?"

"The people quarantined on the other side of the Ark-"

"What about them?"

"They won't all be infected!" Reaper cried, as if that explained everything. He rushed back to the nanowall, beckoning frantically for Sam to follow. "Come on! Sam, come on!"

Sam rounded the gurney, stripping off her gloves and snatching the first vial as she followed him.

"What's going on?" she demanded. Reaper turned to her with an expression of dread, pausing briefly at the door.

"Sarge is gonna kill 'em all," he breathed. His eyes flicked around the room for an instant, searching, searching for a body... He froze.

"Sam?" he suddenly asked, his voice hushed. "Did you bring Amanda's body in here with you?"

Sam looked at him. "No, why?"

Reaper swore, looking around for the sniper rifle that Tank had leaned up against the wall before they had gone into the sewers. It was gone, too.

"Because she disappeared from Carmack's lab," Reaper said thickly, turning and rushing out the nanowall. Sam followed close at his heels, trying as best she could to keep up with his breakneck pace.

"What?" Sam exclaimed, puffing a little bit as they barreled down the corridor and into the atrium. "But how could she have been infected if she was already dead?"

"I don't know!" Reaper huffed at her. It was still an open, raw wound on his heart. "I only know that she was there when I left, and when I came back looking for you, she was gone!"

Then they arrived in the Ark room, and Reaper glanced around for any enemies. Then he led his sister over to the Ark itself.

Stopping just outside the Ark's field of sensitivity, Reaper turned to Sam, his expression grave and uncompromising.

"You will not hesitate, and you sure as hell won't turn back," he said. It was more of a command. "Research here is _over._"

He glanced at the tank where the silvery droplet- the Ark- hung, suspended. "When I go through the Ark," he went on, "you count to three and follow me. I'd send you through first, but I don't know what's waiting over there..."

"I'm afraid we do know," Sam said softly. "I just don't know if these things are the only enemy-"

"You understand what I'm telling you, Sam? You don't get a sudden inspiration to go back to the goddamn lab. You don't go looking for souvenirs or clean underwear. One-"

"-two, three, and I go through. I think I kinda get it, John," Sam interrupted, a small, sad smile on her face. She knew that he was just trying to protect her. She glanced at the Ark. "You hate going through that thing... Maybe you're the one that's stalling, here."

Reaper blinked, surprised. "How did you know I hate-?" Then it hit him. "Yeah. Everybody hates it. Okay, I'm going. Remember-"

"I know, I know, one-two-three."

He couldn't stall any longer. Taking a deep breath, Reaper glanced at his sister one last time, and then stepped into the Ark's field of sensitivity. Icy cold washed over him, and then warmth...

Then he was pulled in, and he was falling, falling, into infinity. Living seas swirled around him in improbable colors, impossible smells.

But then he was someplace familiar- the RRTS barracks, surrounded by everybody on the squad that he had ever known, even the ones who had died. Jumper, Seraph, Hound, Indian, Hellraiser, Destroyer, Portman, Mac, Goat, Pug, Sarge... and Tank. The only ones missing were Duke and the Kid.

Mac stared up at him from waist-height, his body holding his head in his hands. Jumper met him with a toothy grin, but he was missing everything above the nose. Seraph and Hellraiser looked like they had the last time he had seen them, as did Sarge. Destroyer was battered, and his form was blackened from the electricity that had killed him; the fluid in his eye sockets was still bubbling. Hound and Indian were scorched, and Reaper could see the tiny pieces of metal sticking out of them from the bomb that they had failed to disarm. Goat's half-transformed face was split open, partially covered in brain matter. Portman looked like something that had gone through a meat grinder and come out vaguely intact. And Pug... Pug looked as cheerful as he had ever been, if you could get past the fact that he was also staring up at you from waist height because he was missing most of the lower half of his body. A well-placed grenade had taken him out...

The only one who looked even faintly healthy was Tank, but even she was sporting her own wounds. A metal pipe had been shoved through the lower right side of her chest, right where Reaper knew her liver would be. She was hunched over, and couldn't seem to focus her eyes, but she grinned up at him through a mouthful of blood nonetheless.

"Good to see you, Sergeant," said Portman. Reaper stared around at them all.

"Good to see you..." he hedged vaguely. Because it _wasn't_ good to see them like this, his teammates as walking, talking corpses and ruins. And Tank... She just smiled at him sympathetically while he shook his head, wondering where he was.

"We got some memories, huh?" asked Mac's head. Reaper briefly wondered how it was talking without a voice box. "Remember that time we all went on furlough together- the whole bunch of us drunk in the same whorehouse, shouting at each other through the wall. 'How's yours?' 'She's great- but small!' 'Hey yo, mine's big enough to kick my ass!'"

Reaper chuckled awkwardly, dutifully, at that. He hadn't taken part in that part of that specific excursion- only gotten drunk, really, and then made off with Tank to the nearest secluded spot- but the guys had told him about it at length afterwards.

"Yeah, we had some times," he allowed. His lips felt rubbery, and he looked at Tank. "Amanda..."

"We did," Hellraiser said, as though Reaper hadn't spoken. Reaper looked at him. Hellraiser was relatively intact- not dead, yet. So why was he there, surrounded by the dead?

_For that matter,_ Reaper wondered, _why am _I _here?_

"Don't know," Hellraiser went on, "if we'll have any more good times, the way things've been going, Sergeant... I'm stuck out in this hellhole of a boot camp, with this bitch to rag on me all day and night."

"Yeah, well... talk to... to Sarge..." It was difficult to think straight- it was all wrong. Just _wrong._

"Talk to Sarge?" queried Seraph with a raised eyebrow. "Yeah, right. I'm just hoping I'll live to see thirty. That's all. Just get to thirty..."

"Remember... remember," Portman said suddenly, "you guys were going to a ball game. Didn't want to take me along... But then you said 'Hey, come on, Portman'. Heh, I remember that. You're not so bad, Sergeant..."

Reaper didn't quite know what to say to that. "Thanks... I, uh... why... why are we-?"

"But then again, pretty soon Seraph and Hellraiser, here, are gonna get it, too... And that's all about you fucking up, isn't it... Sergeant?"

Now Reaper was starting to get a bit edgy. "I'm doing the best I can... Trying to get somewhere... get Sarge's six..."

A soft touch to his wrist drew Reaper's attention to Tank, only to see that she had sidled up next to him and was looking up at him reassuringly.

"Don't listen to them, John," she whispered, and suddenly all the others' voices seemed to fall on deaf ears.

"Yeah, Reaper," said Pug's voice. Reaper looked down at him. "This is your mind. You're only hearing your worst fears."

"...all your fault, Sergeant..." Portman was saying. Tank squeezed Reaper's wrist again.

"Don't listen to him," she said firmly. "Everybody makes mistakes. You're only human, John, and you were set against something you had no prior knowledge of, something supernaturally advanced beyond what you could ever achieve."

"But what about me?" asked Jumper, coming to the fore and grinning at Reaper with a toothless, bloody grin.

"Nobody can help any of us," said Portman, and Reaper couldn't help but listen to him, "except Sergeant John Grimm here. He can help us by blowing out his brains. That'd make us feel better, anyway. Maybe we'd rest, then. Because we counted on him, and he blew it... even the stupid guerilla kid, you coulda figured he didn't know what he was doing, maybe captured him..."

Reaper's breath came short in the strangely stifling air of the barracks as the tension inside him mounted. His emotions fluctuated wildly inside him, one second anger, crushing guilt the next, and then grief, maddening grief...

He stared at Portman, eyes stinging, not feeling Tank's comforting grip on his wrist, not hearing her soothing words, waiting for the blow that would drive it all home...

_Don't say it... I can't take it... Not right now..._

"...but you had to end his miserable little life..."

And it became too much. Reaper burst into roaring, sobbing rage, and he wrenched himself out of the Ark-induced vision, closed his eyes, and felt himself falling, falling through the essence of corruption, into oily blackness, to emerge in a tube of liquid colored with colors that weren't colors and suddenly he was staggering out into the Ark chamber... back home.

He collapsed to his knees, trying futilely to hold down the contents of his stomach. Reaper managed to drag himself a few feet away before he became violently ill. It was more because of his guilt and self-loathing than the Ark's whirlwind travel.

Twenty seconds after he came through, Sam suddenly materialized, stepping out of the machine's range and into the main room. She took two wobbling steps before she collapsed, groaning, on top of her brother. Reaper managed to keep himself from falling into the mess he had made, and pushed them away from it before he sat down and took Sam into his arms.

Her eyes were rolled up into her head, and she alternatively shuddered and went limp, again and again.

"Dad," she mumbled, "he's... John's all..."

Reaper shook her. "Sam!"

Her eyes fluttered, rolled back down so that she could look at him, and she briefly squeezed them shut before she stared at him again.

"I hate that thing," she muttered. "Seeing things in there..."

Reaper nodded, and got to his feet, helping to steady her as he pulled her up. "Me, too..."

_But maybe what I saw in there was the truth. Sometimes dreams show you the truth..._

Reaper began to reload his gun, briefly considering just ending it all right there. Take care of Sam, first... that way the demons couldn't get her. Then just stick the muzzle in his mouth, suck metal, squeeze the trigger... a brief flash of pain, and then it would all be over. He could see Tank again...

That thought stopped him.

_Tank... Amanda..._

She would slap him silly if she ever heard of him entertaining these sorts of thoughts- she wouldn't want him to think like he currently was. She'd tell him what he already knew in some far corner of his mind- that he was as post-traumatic as they came right now. Partly from what'd happened in the rainforest, not being there for Jumper, letting him die... And then Olduvai- the stress of worrying about Tank and Sam there... Losing Mac, Destroyer, Goat, Portman, and Tank, all in such a short span of time...

"John? John, are you alright?"

No. He couldn't think like that.

Besides, he had a job to do, and three more squadmates to find.

"Come on," he murmured to Sam, turning and walking away from the Ark. He switched his attention to finding Sarge, Duke, and the Kid.

"Sarge!" he called into the comm. "Sarge, what's your position?"

No reply. He tried again. "Sarge, do you read?"

There was a burst of static in his ear, and he thought he could hear the faint, distant sound of gunfire from far off in the facility.

"_I copy, Reaper._"

_Thank God!_

"Sarge, we don't have to kill everyone," Reaper said urgently, moving toward the atrium. "Transmission of the condition is self-selecting."

There was a brief pause. Reaper thought he heard the thump of a gunshot, but he couldn't be sure.

"_Roger that, Reaper,_" Sarge transmitted back. "_I'm on my way toward you._"

"Roger," Reaper muttered, and then turned his attention back to Sam. "Sarge's coming to meet up with us."

He paused, studying his sister. She was pale, her hair in disarray, her hazel eyes- so much like his own- wider than they usually were. Even her lips had gone white. Her white sweater, leggings, and boots were splashed liberally with crimson.

"You okay?" he asked her quietly. His voice was uncommonly gentle. Sam looked at him, and then nodded.

"I think I will be, if we make it out of here alive," she replied shakily. Reaper studied her for a second longer, and then nodded.

"Come on, let's go to the infirmary," he suggested, and then paused, hearing gunshots again. Not very far-off, either. "Let's check up on what supplies they have."

"Right," Sam said. Reaper turned and led the way down an adjoining hallway... or at least, he would have, had not a set of footsteps echoed out of another hall at that same instant.

Reaper whipped around to face it, leveling his machine gun in case it was a threat. However, he relaxed slightly when Sarge emerged a second later, looking tired, worn, but otherwise hale.

"Sarge!" Reaper greeted. "Good to see you're still alive."

Sarge gave Reaper a searching look. "Good to see you haven't gone AWOL."

Reaper frowned, but let it slide. "I heard gunshots just a minute ago, Sarge."

"Yeah," Sarge replied with a grunt, pulling a nutrition bar out of his vest and opening it. He bit off half the bar, and then, chewing, continued, "Ran into some of our genetically fucked-up buddies."

He glanced at Reaper. "What's the situation back at Olduvai?"

"SNAFU," Reaper grunted.

"Sarge, are you sure they were...?" Sam began. Sarge leveled a supremely indifferent look at her.

"Close enough for rock 'n' roll," he deadpanned.

"You got any new orders from anyone lately?" Reaper asked. "Anyone contact you from the outside?"

"No," Sarge replied, "and no."

"Maybe we should call out and get some, Sarge."

But Sarge was already shaking his head. "I got my orders for this kind of situation. I just didn't tell you every last part of it." He paused, and his gaze was distant for an instant before he focused back on Reaper. "They didn't specify what might go wrong. But before we went to Olduvai, I was told that if things go sour..."

He shrugged. "We have orders to contain this facility by any means necessary."

"But I don't think everyone is infected, or even capable of _being_ infected!" Sam protested insistently.

"We have orders to _contain_ the threat," Sarge repeated flintily, "by any... means... necessary."

"Then we evac the uninfected survivors," Reaper growled, turning to Sarge, "and blow this place back to hell."

"And we have orders to protect this facility!" Sarge said. He was beginning to show the start of cold anger in his eyes, and suddenly Reaper was hit with the notion that something inside of his CO had changed.

"We don't have orders to kill innocent people!" Reaper persisted.

Sarge leaned down to Reaper so that they were almost nose to nose, and smiled thinly. "'By any means necessary'."

Reaper frowned inwardly. If Sarge was going to begin deciding that anybody except him was infected, then Reaper might have to take him out...

* * *

_**2046 A.D. - Ark Facility, Papoose Lake, Nevada - 0510 hours**_

Sarge had been clear on his orders, and Duke had listened before heading off to do as he had been instructed to.

_'Pray for war', he said. I wish it fucking _was_ war. War's with _people._ This is a whole new category of butchery._

The corridor that Duke had taken twisted a few times, right, left, and then hit a dead end. A pile of bodies was stacked against the wall, pale, bloody, ragged. Duke even glimpsed the corpse of a woman, her clothes torn, one mutilated breast exposed to the air. Looked like it had been gnawed upon.

"Christ," Duke breathed. Then he shook his head, pushed past the horror and revulsion, and began to do his job. His gun sang once, twice, one bullet into the head of each corpse. He didn't take any chances. They could already be transforming...

The bodies flinched as he shot them, all-too-lifelike, as though he had shot them while they were still alive. Glazed eyes stared up at him, silent accusations were hurled at him.

_'Why couldn't you save us?'_ they seemed to say. Duke's stomach lurched, and he almost threw up, but he didn't have anything left in his stomach to vomit with.

He kept firing, firing. Blood pooled around his boots- red, not black...

Duke paused to slam home a fresh clip, coughing from his own gun smoke. Funny how he coughed from gun smoke, but not from the cigarettes he was so fond of...

Duke made a silent promise to stop smoking as soon as he got out of this hellhole.

Then he froze. There was a sound, besides his own coughing. Something moving- a moan, maybe?- coming from the opposite side of the hallway. And he could hear footsteps...

He swung his weapon in the direction of the nearer could-be threat, fired in that direction, into another pile of dead bodies, which was twitching ever so slightly.

"Jesus Christ!" swore a male voice. "Stop shooting!"

The voice was familiar. But it was best to err on the side of caution. "Who the hell's in there?"

Two arms stretched out from the pile of corpses, and Duke, tense and trigger-happy as he currently was, almost shot them. He managed to hold back, though.

A face came out after the arms, bloodied but human. Pinky.

Pinky glared at him. "Well don't just stand there, you dumb sonuvabitch, get me outta here!"

Duke shook his head, almost in disbelief, and stepped forward to help unbury the half-man. Their section of the hallway was plunged into darkness as Duke aimed his rifle away from Pinky. A few seconds passed in silence as Duke heaved the heavy bodies off of Pinky, his hearing attuned to his surroundings. When Pinky suddenly turned wide eyes to something behind him, Duke didn't immediately register it. After all, he trusted his hearing...

But he jumped when a hand suddenly appeared, effortlessly picking up the body he was lifting in order to throw it away. Duke whipped around, rifle in his hands, ready to shoot-

-only to come face to face with one of his squadmates.

* * *

_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own Doom! But I do own Tank (a.k.a. Power Girl! Dun-dun-dun-daaaaa! *gets smacked by lawyers* Okay, okay! She's not Power Girl! *mutters* She doesn't have a double-D chest, anyway…)_

_Aaaand so the plot thickens. Again. Who was it that Duke ran into? What did Reaper's vision mean? Will any of them make it out of the Ark facility alive? Gasp! Find out next time on Dragonball Z! …Er, that is, Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum! Yeah, that's what I mean!_

_Ahem. *blush*_

_A huge thank you goes out to my awesome, PATIENT reviewers. This means you, __**powergirl24**__, __**angel19872006**__, and __**Crye 4 Me**__! I did get ya'll's reviews, and don't worry, this isn't the end of things yet. And don't worry, __**Crye 4 Me**__, you don't have to sing, I got your message loud and clear the first time. :) And I DO have that song in my music library. I've been listening to it on repeat for the past three hours whilst I typed up that flashback._

_If anyone's wondering about the purpose of the flashback, it's to juxtapose the happiness that Tank, Reaper, and the rest of the squad had when they were all alive, awaiting something with joyful anticipation, and without the threat of imminent doom hanging over their heads; versus the hopelessness of the now, when all but four of them are gone, having succumbed to death in some form or another. It's also something of a memorial for Tank, you could say._

_On a more solemn note, tomorrow marks the ninth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks on the Twin Towers and the Pentagon back in 2001. Here's to all those people who were, and still are, affected by those bombings. Words cannot describe your loss, and so I won't try to. Just know that some of the more far-sighted Americans out there still remember what happened that day, and we know who was responsible for it._

_Next chapter should be posted 9-16-10, since I seem to be more able to post on Thursdays, now._

_-__**P**__ortrait of a __**S**__cribe_


	43. 2046 AD UACRC Olduvai Mars 0520 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_Sometimes you have to die to truly begin to live."  
_–_Portrait of a Scribe._

__

**Chapter 42.**

* * *

_**2046 A.D. - Ark Facility, Papoose Lake, Nevada - 0520 hours**_

Reaper almost jumped when a set of bootsteps rang out, and he turned to see Duke entering the atrium, smiling ironically.

"Look what I found hidin' under a pile of dead bodies," Duke said, but Reaper didn't hear him. His eyes were fixated on the person walking in backwards behind Duke, sure that it must be some kind of vision, delusion, or other hallucination.

Because Tank couldn't be alive and walking toward him. It just wasn't possible...

But the others saw her, too. Sam and Sarge just stopped what they were doing and stared, then glanced at each other and Reaper for confirmation. They were all seeing her, after they had watched her die in Carmack's office back on Mars.

Tank smiled knowingly at them, but her gaze was distracted as she stared back into the hallway.

"Tank?" queried Sarge disbelievingly.

"The one and only," she replied, glancing over her shoulder at them. Before her, Pinky rolled in, behind Duke. The wheelchair-grafted man looked haggard and pale, but relieved to see Sam.

"Boy, am I glad to see you guys," Pinky said. Reaper almost didn't process his words. "That thing cut right through the door. I tried to use the ST grenade, but it malfunctioned. It followed right behind me, through the Ark. Started killing everybody..."

He swallowed, and his voice became husky as he finished, "It was horrible..."

"Sam, check his neck," Tank commanded. She still had her gun trained on the hallway. Frowning...

Sam blinked, and went to do as she was told. Reaper, in the meanwhile, took a couple steps toward Tank, feeling as though he was moving in a dream.

"Amanda?" he breathed. Scared to believe...

Tank was standing upright as though her back had never been broken, and her black uniform was smeared with drying blood. It was crusted down her chin and neck, but he could see no fresh blood on her. Underneath the rusty brown tint, her skin glowed the healthy color of a woman in her prime, unaffected by illness. She didn't look as though she had died just under an hour before.

Tank finally eased slightly, taking her eyes off the hallway so that she could look over at Reaper as he reached her. She gave him a small smile.

Reaper slowly reached out with a quaking hand to touch her cheek, feeling dazed. "Amanda... am I dreaming?"

Her small grin widened, and she reached up to lay her hand over his. "This isn't a fucking dream."

He only frowned, confusion and hurt lacing his gaze as he stared at her. "But... how? I _saw _you die..."

Tank shrugged, and turned her head so that she could press a kiss into his palm.

"I don't know," she admitted softly, voice muffled by his skin. "I woke up in Carmack's office feeling better than ever, and when I went to find everybody, I couldn't find _anybody..._ I popped into the infirmary to grab my rifle... I think Sam was there, but I was a bit preoccupied, and didn't even stop to say hi to her. I don't think she noticed me, either."

It was only then that Reaper noticed that her massive sniper rifle was slung across her back and her submachine gun was holstered at her thigh again.

Then it hit him. "That adrenaline I had Sam get..."

Reaper spun around to face Sam, who had just finished checking Pinky over. "Sam! Back in Carmack's lab- was that adrenaline you gave her, or something else?"

Sam blinked, and then pondered the question for a second. "I didn't really look. I just grabbed the bottle- it was the same shape, size, and color of the adrenaline, so I didn't give it much thought..."

Reaper's expression darkened into a stormy scowl. "You didn't look?"

"She was dying!" Sam defended. Then she paused, and a look of horrific realization took over her features. "Oh, God... Oh, God, I know what I gave her..."

"What?" demanded Reaper. Sam turned wide eyes on them, seeing Tank simply standing there, calm...

...untransformed.

"C-24," Sam breathed. "It was sitting on the table next to the bottle of adrenaline... They looked almost exactly alike... I must've grabbed the wrong bottle..."

You could've heard a pin drop.

"Well," Tank said ventured lightly after a few seconds of terse silence. "That explains why my senses seem enhanced..."

"And why you're so damn strong, all of a sudden," Duke chimed in. Reaper, Sarge, and Sam all looked at him, and he shrugged. "She lifted a two-hundred-pound dead body with one hand, man. I wasn't about to fucking shoot 'er."

"Thankfully," Pinky grumbled. That got Sam's attention back to him, and she looked over at Sarge.

"Pinky doesn't have a wound on his neck," Sam stated. "He's clean."

Which, in turn, brought Sarge's attention, and anger, back to Sam. "I'll say who's clean and who isn't."

But you couldn't miss the slightly doubtful tint to his expression, even as he took ammo from his belt and began to reload his pistol. Reaper stared openly at Sarge.

_Isn't this proof enough for him? Tank's not turning into one of those monsters- that should be enough evidence to convince him that the chromosome doesn't turn everyone into a demon!_

"What're you doing?" asked Pinky plaintively. "You shouldn't have left me there. It wasn't my fault..."

The pistol's hammer clicked as Sarge cocked it. Pinky's breath began to come short as he neared the edge of panic.

"I'm not a soldier," he said, hands scrabbling at his cyberchair. "You shouldn't have left me!"

A sudden burst of motion from the hall to their left startled all of them. Duke, Sarge, Tank, and Reaper- all of them nearly shot the Kid in reaction.

"There's a storeroom to the south!" the Kid blurted, uncaring of the fact that he had nearly been blown to bits. "Got, like, twenty people holed up in it!"

Sarge's eyes narrowed, and his gaze and voice gained that particular flatness again. "Your orders were to clear that sector. Is it cleared?"

The Kid blinked, taken aback. "I told them to stay put. They're okay, just scared shitless-"

Sarge shook his head. "We kill 'em all- let God sort 'em out."

* * *

_**2046 A.D. - Ark Facility, Papoose Lake, Nevada - 0530 hours**_

Tank couldn't believe what she was hearing- and she could hear a lot, now. Seriously. It was like she had been hearing through a filter, before, and now that filter had been removed.

She could hear the blood pumping through the Kid's body, faster, faster, as his heart rate elevated. He looked from face to face as Tank looked disbelievingly at Sarge.

"Okay-" the Kid finally said at last. "-I think this is wrong."

Tank could tell he was having a hard time saying it- he seemed to be having an internal struggle between pleasing Sarge and placing his limits. She didn't know how she knew what he was thinking, but she attributed it to the C-24.

"Son," Sarge barked. Tank's eyes narrowed, picking up on a trail of not-speech that only she seemed to be able to hear. "You don't have to think- because you've been given a fucking _order._"

Tank moved away from Reaper, edging over to the Kid, trying to be inconspicuous.

_-gonna have to kill him if he doesn't follow orders-_

Tank blinked, shocked, as she heard Sarge's voice. He, however, hadn't moved his lips.

_Definitely the C-24_, she decided. She took another step toward the Kid, who looked hesitant.

"We're in the field, soldier!" Sarge continued.

"Sarge, if nothing's found them, yet-" Reaper began, but Sarge cut him off.

"We're in the field!" Sarge was only speaking to the Kid.

Tank came to stand in front of the Kid, a couple of feet away from him. Not threatening Sarge by standing between them, but close enough that she could do something if she needed to.

_Please don't say it, Sarge-_

"And you will obey the direct order of your commanding officer!" Sarge continued. Tank frowned.

There was a brief silence.

"Sarge, what's the matter with you?" Tank asked softly. Sarge's gaze flicked over to her, and sharpened slightly. "You've never acted like this, before!"

"No," the Kid said before Sarge could answer. Sarge turned his glare back onto the Kid.

"Now, soldier!" Sarge growled. It was more than insistence- it was a threat, warning, and guarantee that basically translated to '_Obey the order or you're going to pay the ultimate price for defying a superior in combat'._

"Sarge!" Tank exclaimed. Desperate, now. "Sarge, haven't you been listening to me? You don't have to kill them if they aren't infected!"

She knew what Sarge was thinking, and now she could hear the Kid's thoughts, as well. If the Kid said what he was planning to say, he was going to get shot. She couldn't stand by and watch this play out.

"Go to hell!"

Tank gasped at the words, and then she watched as Sarge seemed to swing around in slow motion, bringing his gun to bear on the Kid-

She reached out and pushed the Kid to the floor just as Sarge fired. The Kid went flying into the wall, and Tank reeled back, gasping with pain, as the bullet caught her high in her right arm.

There was a moment of stunned silence, but Tank wasn't idle as the rest of them stared at her. She was in Sarge's face in an instant, before any of them could blink, her sidearm cocked and shoved up under Sarge's chin. She released her assault rifle to dangle by its strap across her chest, and her now-free hand grabbed Sarge's extended arm, wrenching it down until he dropped the pistol. It clattered to the ground and fired a shot that ricocheted off the floor and bounced off into the dark recesses of the ceiling.

Sarge blinked, and then seemed to realize the precarious position he was currently in.

"Think, you stupid fucker!" Tank hissed at him, glaring up into his startled eyes. "You just shot me! This isn't the Dwayne Casimir Mahonin I grew up knowing- this isn't the Sarge I serve under! That man would never have shot his subordinates!"

She forced his chin up with the muzzle of her pistol, narrowing her gaze at him. Sarge swallowed.

"You wouldn't shoot me," he whispered.

"I will," she growled. She meant it, too. "You try to harm any member of my family again, I'll take you out. Understand?"

Sarge swallowed, opening his mouth to reply- but Tank had suddenly stiffened. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, her eyes widened.

She smelt vinegar.

Tank whipped around, searching frantically.

"Drop the weapons!" shouted a voice suddenly. Tank spun to look at Pinky, only to see that Reaper had his machine gun trained on Sarge, as did Duke. The Kid was picking himself up next to the wall, looking dazed. Pinky had leveled a pistol at Tank and Sarge, and he had it cocked, ready to fire.

"Do it!" Pinky commanded, and Tank squinted into the shadows behind him. It was difficult for even her enhanced vision to see through them...

"I didn't come all this way to be killed!" Pinky went on. "Drop 'em, now!"

Then she spotted it, at the same time that Reaper, Sarge, Duke, and the Kid did. A huge, hulking shadow standing behind Pinky, where they couldn't shoot it without hitting him. Her eyes widened.

Pinky seemed to realize it, too, because his features crumpled slightly as the thing let out a low growl, almost too low for human ears to hear...

"Aww, there's something behind me, isn't there?" he moaned, question saturated with dread.

He never got his answer.

At that second, the demon- a Hell Baron, Tank recalled from the Stahl tapes- grabbed Pinky around the neck and jerked him, wheelchair and all, into the air. It whipped him around, screaming, like a makeshift club. Tank pulled Sarge down, ducking as it swung Pinky toward their heads.

"Hit the deck!" she yelled. She saw Duke pull Sam down, but Reaper didn't react fast enough. Tank's blood ran cold as Reaper was clipped in the head and went flying into the wall with a horrible thud.

_John... It hit John... He's not moving! _Tank's thoughts bolted through her mind faster than light, and she turned a blazing brandy-brown gaze onto the monster's retreating form as it made off with its prize... Pinky.

_I'll kill it!_

Only a half a second had passed since Reaper had been hit.

She released Sarge and dashed after the monster, not even waiting for the orders that Sarge barked out a half an instant later.

"On me!" Sarge shouted. "Move out!"

All other grievances were set aside as they pursued their quarry.

Tank's enhanced speed allowed her to easily outstrip the men, and she only paid attention to the creature she saw in front of her as she pushed through an open nanowall and into the darkened corridor beyond.

She didn't notice the darkness, though- everything was as bright as day to her. She could make out every little detail of her surroundings- the fine texture of the walls around her, the roughness of the creature's exoskeleton ahead of her, the smooth, liquid surface of the drops of blood that were being trailed by Pinky's limp form.

But suddenly she put on the brakes when she heard a series of screeches up ahead. Tank's eyes widened, and she scrambled to reverse her momentum as the demon entered a crowd of imps and half-transformed humans.

It was too late, though. They had already seen her, seen the healthy flush to her skin, smelled the pheromones given off by her body, heard the rush of the warm blood in her veins.

They darted toward her, screeching in victory.

Tank backpedaled furiously, firing her pistol as fast as she could aim into their heads. There were too many, too many for her to face alone, even with her enhanced speed and strength. Tank's heart pounded in her ears as loudly as a gunshot.

Soon enough, the magazine in her pistol ran out, and she holstered it even as she brought her assault rifle up with one hand and fired into the throng. It kicked and jumped in her hand until her bones began to ache, but Tank focused on getting out of there.

"Sarge," she screamed into her comm, knowing that Sarge would hear her. "Withdraw! Withdraw behind the nanowall!"

At that moment, she spun and dashed back the way she had come, glancing over her shoulder and firing every few steps.

Ahead she could see Sarge and Reaper hunkered down behind the support structures of the hall. She turned and fired off a few more rounds as she passed them, and then she took cover behind another support beam as Reaper fired a few rounds. Then he and Sarge retreated behind her as Tank covered them.

"I can't see!" she heard Reaper shout. She heard him scrub furiously at his eyes before hurriedly changing out the clip in his gun. "I can't see!"

Tank shook her head, unloading the rest of her clip into the horde. Then she turned and dashed back toward Reaper, grabbing his sleeve and pushing him back toward the nanowall.

"Go!" she shouted, "I'll get Sarge!"

Reaper nodded and made his way back toward the nanowall, wiping blood out of his eyes as he went. Tank changed the clips in her rifle, and then turned, standing in the middle of the hallway, and opened up into the horde.

"Sarge!" she screamed. "Sarge, get back!"

Sarge turned and darted back behind her. Tank briefly pondered sending an RPG into the demons as she backpedaled furiously, but there wasn't enough time, even with her enhanced speed.

After all, the dozens of half-formed, misbegotten assailants could move as fast as she could.

Then she pushed through the nanowall, and Sarge hit the switch to close it. It solidified just in time to keep the first imp from getting through...

...or so Tank thought.

She had just turned away to breathe a sigh of relief when more gunshots hit her eardrums.

"Fuck!" Reaper shouted. "The wall's not closing!"

Tank whirled around to see that he was right- the nanowall was only half-closed, and the horde was pushing through.

Her gaze passed over Duke as she turned to pump lead through the door and into the hall beyond. The man was standing on top of a grate that led down into God-knows-where.

"Duke!" Tank screamed, stepping over and grabbing his sleeve. She wordlessly pulled him away from the grate, glaring into his startled eyes.

"These motherfuckers come from _everywhere,_ remember?" she snapped at him, and went ahead and pulled Sam over to the opposite side of the hallway, as well. The blond woman went over to stand at the Kid's shoulder as he unloaded his handheld semiautomatics.

Tank took a second to unload the rest of her clip into the wall. Then she unholstered her submachine gun and turned to Sam, handing the startled scientist the gun.

"Don't point that at anything you don't wanna shoot!" Tank ordered. Then she flipped the safety off and firmly corrected Sam's grip. "That's the safety- turn it on when we're not in a firefight. Hold it tight, but not too tight. Then aim and squeeze the trigger, don't pull it. Got that?"

Sam nodded with wide, frightened eyes. Tank nodded with satisfaction, and then let go of her empty assault rifle. It dropped to hang at her waist as she unslung her sniper rifle and brought it to bear.

Tank fired.

A single, deafening shot made them all jump, and through the nanowall, she was able to watch as the heads of three of the half-transformed humans all but exploded in quick succession.

A sudden yelp caught her attention, and she glanced over at Sarge in time to see him get grabbed around the ankles and pulled halfway through the nanowall before Reaper managed to grab him. Tank could do nothing about it, though, except fire off another round into the wall after Reaper was out of the way.

"I'm not supposed to die!" she heard Sarge lament, and then he was pulled through despite Reaper's best efforts. Reaper kept firing through the wall, and Tank, Duke, and the Kid took a second to stop and reload.

The nanowall closed an instant later, just as a single other bullet left Reaper's machine gun. Tank saw him jerk once, and then he turned, grabbed Sam's wrist, and fled from the nanowall while Tank, Duke, and the Kid followed close behind.

They had to get someplace safe to regroup.

That was the only thought in Tank's mind as she took the lead and guided them through the compound until she finally came to the halfway-demolished infirmary.

She went in and cleared it with Duke at her side before she beckoned the others in.

Reaper, Sam, and the Kid entered the room, and Tank sealed the door before they all began to work on creating a barricade. They wanted to keep those monsters out for as long as possible, after all...

It took them almost ten minutes to finish moving the heavy supplies up against the door, but when Tank finally stood back next to Duke, and the Kid took a seat against the wall, they had a good-sized blockade set up.

It was then that Tank noticed the stench of fresh blood that had permeated the room.

Reaper grunted as he heaved the last spool of heavy cable onto the pile, and the scent of blood renewed itself.

"How long until they break through?" asked Sam, dragging over another, lighter, roll of cable. Reaper groaned quietly, his breath heavy, face pale, and briefly slumped against the barricade before he turned to his sister.

"Not long," he gasped out.

"You've been hit!" Sam exclaimed, and Tank was only able to stare in horror as scarlet gushed out of a hole in Reaper's lower abdomen before he covered it with his hand. Sam dropped her burden and rushed in, covering his hand with her own, putting pressure on the wound as she guided him over to sit against the wall.

Reaper slumped heavily to the floor against it and stretched his legs out in front of him.

Tank turned to Duke, her eyes wide and horrified. He stared back, and she could see sadness in his gaze.

She turned back to Reaper. She could smell the heady scent of fresh blood on him, could sense his thoughts becoming hazy, fading away.

Tank was at his side in an instant while Sam was still fumbling with her medikit.

Tank laid her hand on her husband's cheek, and frowned. He was cold.

"You're losing too much blood," she muttered, and then turned to Sam. "Sam, get that skin sealant out, quick!"

"You have to listen to me," Reaper muttered thickly. Tank could tell how much pain he was in. "It's important..."

Sam cast her sister-in-law an anxious glance, withdrawing the spray bottle with faintly trembling fingers. She sprayed it on Reaper's wound quickly, but Tank knew that the damage was already done- the bullet would have shredded his organs.

Reaper was dying.

As Tank swallowed back tears at the realization, Sam reached out and pressed her hand to her brother's cheek.

"You're cold," she observed, and turned back to her kit. "Shivering."

Tank saw Sam withdraw a syringe and a vial, saw her fill and prep it. Reaper saw it, too, but he was too busy reaching into his grenade pouch. He withdrew his hand a second later, taking with it a single ST grenade.

His hand shook. Tank heard Duke and the Kid mutter something and groan behind her, but paid them no attention. Her mind was bent toward her husband.

"Sam," he whispered. "This is an ST grenade. When they get through... Are you listening? You pop the top and hit the button."

But Sam wasn't listening. She was rolling up the sleeve of Reaper's jumpsuit.

"Pop the top and hit the button," Reaper breathed. "Pop the top..." Tank looked back over at him to see that his eyes had rolled up into his head and he was swaying in place.

"John, stay awake!" Tank ordered, gently tapping Reaper's cheek. "Stay with me, John!"

He took a couple of heaving breaths, but his eyes fluttered, and a second later, he was staring at her dazedly. It was then that he finally took note of Sam tying a tourniquet around his arm and swabbing his skin with alcohol. She lifted the syringe with a determined nod, preparing to inject it into him.

"What's that?" he croaked. A feeling of dread mounted in Tank's breast as Sam looked meaningfully up into Reaper's eyes.

"C-24," Sam replied.

"No-"

"I took it from Carmack's lab-"

"No!" Reaper gasped out, shaking his head weakly. "Forget it..."

"You're bleeding to death," Sam said flatly, and Tank nearly cried at that. "It might save you..."

_Yeah,_ Tank thought, _but if it turns him into a monster, I'll have to kill him..._

But Reaper was staring at his sister, his eyes haunted. Tank caught flashes of memory from him, flashes of a steamy jungle, of a child blown in half, of a half-headless corpse leaning against a tree...

"I've done things," he whispered. His voice was so haunted that it sent a shiver down Tank's spine. "You don't know. Places I've been- dark places..."

"I know you." Sam's voice was full of reassurance and conviction.

Reaper stared at her, and weakly shook his head.

"No you don't," he breathed, and it was a certain statement. "You don't know me..."

There was a split second pause as Sam stared into her brother's glazing hazel eyes.

"You're my brother," she finally insisted, her voice quiet and uncompromising. "I _know_ you."

Two large, pearly tears rolled down her cheeks, reflecting the pain and fear that Tank, herself, was feeling inside. She could see the hesitance in Reaper's eyes as he stared at first his sister, then at his wife, and his face blurred in Tank's sight as her own eyes swam with tears.

"Let her do it, John," Tank pleaded softly. "Please..."

A resounding thud from the door rang through the room. Tank, Duke, and the Kid swore and leapt to their feet, arming themselves.

Tank glimpsed Reaper's motion out of the corner of her eye as she leveled both her rifle and her submachine gun at the barricade.

He had pulled out his sidearm. His arm shook violently with the energy needed to lift even that light weapon as he spoke to his sister.

"If I become one of those... demons," he said, and swallowed painfully. "One through the heart, one through the head, don't you hesitate."

"I won't need to," Sam protested, but Reaper shook his head.

"Don't hesitate!" he snapped weakly. "If I start to turn into one of those things... don't wait. You hear me?"

Sam bit her lip, and nodded, taking the gun. Tank glanced at the door as it was hit again.

"Duke, Kid," she called.

"Yeah?" the Kid returned.

"Whassup?" Duke drawled.

"Head for the elevator," Tank ordered. "Take the hallways, get to the elevator, secure it. Don't let anything get to it. We'll find you."

"Yes, ma'am," Duke said. He blatantly didn't like the orders, but Tank was his superior officer at the moment- a superior officer that he actually liked.

"Ma'am," the Kid acknowledged. Tank nodded at them.

"Go," she said. "I'll try to get to those people you were talking about, Kid- where'd you say they were, again?"

"Storeroom, south corridor," the Kid said as he and Duke moved off. "I marked it with fluorescent powder- big X in the middle of the door."

"Right," Tank said. "Now get out of here."

As Duke and the Kid headed off down the corridor, Tank said a silent prayer that they would be alright... then she turned her attention to Sam and Reaper.

Sam had just finished injecting the serum into Reaper's arm, and now Tank could see the hopelessness in his eyes, floating there for a brief second-

Then his whole body seized up, his mouth opened in a silent scream of pure agony, his eyes flew wide. Tank watched as his muscles bulked, tearing the seams of his jumpsuit. A certain heaviness began to make itself home in his face, meaning that his bones were becoming denser. Tank watched his skin flush with the remaining blood in his body.

She knew that he was feeling sheer agony at the moment, but she could do nothing to help ease his pain. This was something that Reaper would have to go through on his own. Tank went to stand beside Sam as they watched Reaper writhe. Tank placed a hand on Sam's shoulder as the younger woman shakily cocked and raised the gun Reaper had given her.

_-Oh, God, I'm gonna have to shoot him-_

"No, you're not," Tank intoned gently. Sam looked up at her, startled. "Put the gun down, Sam. He's not turning."

Tank could sense the energy that was ripping, rippling through Reaper. He was thickening, firming. His eyes burned like twin hellfires from his agonized face.

"What's wrong with him?" Sam gasped. Tank briefly thought about lying to her sister-in-law, but then decided against it.

"The C-24 is killing him," Tank replied calmly. Sam turned frightened eyes up to Tank.

"What?"

"You have no idea what it's like, Sam, and I hope you never find out," Tank whispered. She gazed sadly at her husband's convulsing form. "It's agony in its basest form, and that's all you can feel, hear, see, smell, or taste. The human body wasn't meant to absorb so much at once- it overloads the body, and the body dies, in the clinical sense of the word."

She looked back down at Reaper as he suddenly went limp and fell to the side to land on the floor with a thud, his hazel eyes glazed, staring into nothing. A bolt of pain lanced through her heart. She stifled a sob as he released his last breath.

"He'll be alright," she whispered to herself. "It'll restart his heart, get oxygen moving again soon enough that his brain doesn't die."

A resounding bang, the sound of shearing metal, met Tank's ears. She gasped, whirling to look at the barricade.

The monsters were getting through.

Tank looked back down at Sam, grabbed the blond woman's arm, and yanked her to her feet. "Come on, we have to move!"

Sam looked back down at Reaper. "What about John?"

"No time!" Tank exclaimed, pulling Sam along with her as she headed down the hallway. "He'll be fine! They won't even notice him if he's not moving. Now come on!"

Tank slammed home her last clip into her assault rifle, shouldering it as she swiftly led Sam down the halls. Twists and turns loomed before them, and shrieks of triumph erupted behind them. Tank closed doors as they passed through them, but Tank didn't let Sam slow...

...until Sam suddenly fell, with a shriek of surprise.

Tank whirled around, sighting up the imp that had grabbed Sam's ankles and putting three rounds right through its head. The imp fell away, dead, but Sam didn't get up. They had been ascending a flight of stairs when she fell. She had landed on her side on the edge of the landing.

Sam's ankle was bent at a funny angle, and Tank's enhanced hearing could hear her sister-in-law's right lung beginning to fill with blood.

"Fuck!" Tank swore, shooting down another imp that was approaching. She descended the stairs a little ways, picked Sam up bodily and threw her over her shoulder. Then she continued her sprint, hearing Sam's pained groan.

"Left!" Sam yelped after only a few yards. Tank whirled to the left, firing at a trio of half-transformed humans. Then Tank plowed on.

"Sam, use the pistol!" Tank yelled. "Aim for their heads!" She heard Sam cock the hammer, and a second later, three shots rang out, followed by three shrieks.

They were getting close to the elevator. Tank slapped a door closed behind them, praying that it would buy them time as she stepped into the room.

In the middle of the floor laid a corpse, human. Its lower half was grafted to a wheelchair.

Pinky.

Tank carefully skirted the corpse so that Sam wouldn't see it, and headed through the door on the other end of the room.

As the door slid closed behind them, Tank heard Sam cough wetly, and knew that her sister-in-law's time was running out. They didn't have the proper supplies to treat internal injuries like the ones that Sam seemed to have...

Tank made a quick decision, and rounded a corner before setting Sam down.

Sam was gasping for breath by the time that Tank straightened up again, crouching in front of the other woman.

"Sam," Tank whispered. "Do you read me?"

"Yeah," Sam panted.

"Your lung's been pierced," Tank stated. "We don't have the equipment to treat it, right now. I need you to lay real still, play dead, until I get back, okay?"

"Y-Yeah," Sam gasped. Tank smiled, and gently lowered Sam to lay on the floor.

"Good," she breathed, and then made to get up. However, a gunshot rang out- she suddenly yelled, stiffened, and then collapsed bonelessly across Sam's legs.

Tank wasn't dead, nor was she unconscious. The shot had torn right through her spinal cord beneath her flak vest- perfectly aimed, no doubt. She couldn't move her legs until her healing factor kicked in.

But she could move her arms.

Tank managed to lever herself up enough to look behind her, and when she saw who the culprit was, she openly stared.

"S-Sarge?" Tank choked out. A shiver ran down her spine as she smelled the pheromones that Sarge was giving off.

Sarge smiled down at her, but it was a parody of his normal, caring grin. No, this was something more sinister, more carnal.

It was then that Tank caught a glimpse of the open wound on Sarge's neck.

"You've been infected," Tank gasped.

"No, I haven't," Sarge returned amiably. Tank eyed him distrustfully.

"Sarge, where're those people Kid was talking about?" she asked warily. Sarge shrugged.

"I took care of it," he replied. Tank's blood ran cold.

"You killed them?" she demanded furiously. If she could have moved, she would have leapt up and throttled him- but she couldn't. "How could you?"

"It needed to be done," Sarge said simply. "We can't let the threat spread to the surface."

"You're going to die, Sarge!" Tank hissed, but she couldn't bring her gun around to bear on him without exposing Sam, too. "I'll have to shoot you, myself!"

"No, you won't." Sarge's cryptic statement rang in Tank's thoughts for several long seconds as she stared at him. She could see sadness and longing in Sarge's eyes as he returned her look with one of his own... and she knew.

"Oh, God," she moaned softly. "You're going to make John fight you..."

Sarge shrugged. "I'm not going to _make_ him fight me... but I won't take the coward's way out."

"Sarge..."

Tank looked upon him with pity even as she sensed Sam losing consciousness. After a moment, Tank sighed, and reached out a hand to her longtime friend.

"C'mere," she grunted. "Help me get offa her."

Sarge shook his head, but went over to Tank nonetheless. He took her hand and pulled her up, but she didn't let go once she was off of Sam's legs. Instead, she pulled herself up Sarge's arm until she could wrap her arms around his neck.

Sarge stiffened in Tank's embrace, and then he stiffened further when two tears landed on his shoulder.

"I'm gonna miss you, Dwayne," Tank whispered, voice choked. "You've been there for me for over sixteen years... It'll be hard without you."

Sarge huffed, but he patted her back awkwardly nevertheless.

"Quit being such a fucking pussy, Tank," he groused. "You're a Marine..."

"I know," she gasped, squeezing her eyes shut as another two tears slipped down her cheeks. "I love you, Dwayne. You made a great big brother, teacher, and CO."

"I'll miss you, too, Tank," Sarge finally murmured. "Now stop crying. I need you to be strong, soldier. And I need you to promise me something."

"What?"

"Take care of everybody," he rumbled, "and say goodbye to Tex and all them for me."

"I will," Tank whispered. Her breath hitched in a sob. "I'll make sure you're remembered, Sarge... you and the rest of RRTS Six."

"Thanks."

He let her go, and, with more gentleness than she had thought he possessed, leaned Tank against the wall. Then he reached up under his jumpsuit and pulled out his dog tags. He stared at them, thinking. A second later, they came off his neck, chain and all, and he pressed them into Tank's palm.

"Keep one for yourself," he said quietly.

Tank nodded through welling eyes. "I will, Sarge."

She paused, and then saluted hesitantly. "Semper fi?"

A small, wry smile twitched the corners of Sarge's mouth as he returned the salute. "Semper fi, Marine."

Then he turned and walked away. Tank knew that it would be the last time she would ever see him as a human being.

"Goodbye, Dwayne..."

With a last sad sigh, Tank leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes, resting as her spine worked to heal itself.

Long minutes passed. Tank didn't know whether she sat there for ten minutes, or twenty, or even a half an hour. She knew it couldn't have been longer than a half an hour, because the quarantine still hadn't ended... but it felt like an eternity.

Through some device- maybe Sarge's doing- no demons even came close to the hallway that Sam and Tank were hidden in, though once a huge blast of some kind of plasma shot by and slagged the opposite wall. When Tank extended her senses beyond her immediate surroundings, she could hear breathing and two hearts beating from near the elevator. Duke and the Kid, she realized.

She could smell the guns and the lingering reek of the sewers on them, too, underneath the scent of charred ozone and melted metal.

Another indeterminable length of time passed. Tank eventually became aware of Sam coming around again, and opened her eyes to look down at her sister-in-law's waking form.

"Sam," Tank called.

Sam coughed a couple of times, wincing.

"Sam, how're you doing?"

"Can't... breathe," Sam gasped out. Tank swore inwardly, and attempted to move her legs.

A faint twitch was the reward for her efforts.

"Fuck," Tank muttered. She couldn't do anything about it. Eventually, however, Sam's breathing calmed.

"Better, now," Sam whispered. "It hurts, Amanda..."

Tank laid a hand on Sam's knee, the only thing she could reach at the moment.

"I know, Sam," Tank murmured soothingly. "Don't worry, John'll be here, soon. I know it."

There was silence for a second.

"I'm dying, aren't I?" Sam asked suddenly. Tank looked over at her, knowing that she had injured more than just her ribs and lung and leg.

"Probably," Tank replied, keeping her voice quiet. "If we don't get you to help soon, there's a good chance that they won't be able to save you."

There was another pause.

"We could try C-24," Tank ventured quietly. She had been pondering it off and on since she had first set Sam down.

"I wouldn't risk it," Sam sighed, her voice heavy.

"But John-"

"John and I are fraternal twins, Tank," Sam whispered. "Do you know what that means?"

Tank was affronted. "Of course!"

She hesitated, trying to figure out how to word what she was going to say next.

"Sam, there's something I need to tell you," Tank finally began. "It has to do with C-24."

She heard Sam take a breath. "What?"

"I know how the creatures are choosing," Tank whispered. There was a pregnant pause.

"How?"

"It's hard to explain," Tank hedged. "I guess a good metaphor would be pheromones. I can _smell_ people... and it's like there's one kind of pheromone that I've only been able to find two variations of, as of yet."

"So you can smell who's going to turn and who won't?" Sam asked. Tank could hear the skepticism in her voice.

"Yeah, pretty much," Tank whispered. "Sarge smelled one way, and he's... He's turning, Sam. John smelled different than Sarge... John smells like I do."

"And what about me?"

"If you take C-24, you'll become superhuman, not a monster... I think."

"You think?"

"I'm a bit new to this, so please excuse me if I feel a bit uncertain," Tank snapped irritably. "I haven't even been a... a non-human for an hour, yet. I'm still reading the owner's manual, so cut me some slack."

There was a brief pause.

"Owner's manual?" Sam queried, a vague touch of amusement in her voice.

"Couldn't think of a better metaphor at the moment," Tank huffed, but a small smile twitched her lips, nonetheless. She glanced around. "You should sleep, Sam. Save your strength."

"What about you?" Sam's voice was sleepy.

"I still can't move my legs, but my arms work just fine," Tank deadpanned. "I'll rest, but I've got my ears open. Anything unfriendly comes near us, it'll get a bullet between the eyes."

"Right..."

Sam's voice trailed off, and Tank realized that Sam had fallen asleep. Tank sighed, leaning back against the wall again...

The sudden sound of a door sliding open startled her awake, and Tank sat up slowly, trying to peer around the end of the hallway.

Reaper's familiar musky scent, magnified by her enhanced senses, met Tank's nose.

"_John!_" she gasped in surprise. She hadn't thought he would find them so quickly.

Quick footsteps met her exclamation, as well as Reaper's quiet voice, calling his sister's name. A second later, Reaper rounded the corner, whipping his machine gun down and around to bear on Tank.

"Tank!" he breathed. Then he noticed his sister, and knelt next to her, laying a hand on Sam's shoulder.

"Sam!" he called softly.

She stirred at his touch. "You're alive..."

"Don't talk. Please..."

A sudden voice rang out behind them, and Tank caught wind of Sarge a second later- only his scent was corrupted, rank, turning vinegary.

"Last man standing, Reaper..."

Tank looked out of the hallway to see Sarge standing there, a huge gun cradled in his hands. He looked normal...

But Reaper eyed him with distrust.

_So you smell it, too,_ Tank mused. She saw Reaper blink.

_Amanda?_ His voice in her head made Tank jump with a gasp before she realized what was going on.

_Yeah,_ she replied. _It's the C-24._

_I see._ His thoughts were ponderous. Tank could feel his curiosity, but it was heavily overshadowed by Sarge's presence.

Sarge was looking at Sam, and Tank could see the concern in her long-time friend's eyes, even though he masked it with bitter mockery.

"I think she needs medical attention," Sarge observed. Reaper's grip on Sam's shoulder tightened marginally.

"Where are those survivors Kid found?" Reaper asked, keeping his voice level. Tank knew that he could see the wound on Sarge's neck, see and smell the changes beginning.

"I took care of them," Sarge stated casually with a faint smile. "Just dotting the i's." He paused to glance at his watch. "Quarantine's almost over. Power should be back on any minute."

Tank could sense Reaper's thoughts, knew that he finally knew where he stood with Sarge.

"You killed those survivors... tried to kill the Kid, almost killed Tank..."

"We're all killers, here, Reaper. It's what they pay us for," Sarge said callously. Tank had to keep her mind carefully blank so that Reaper wouldn't be able to pick up on the sheer agony she was going through.

After all, Sarge was trying to provoke Reaper into a fight. Soon her oldest friend and the love of her life would engage in a fight to the death... and once the change began to take over Sarge, there was no guarantee that Reaper would make it out alive.

The overhead emergency lights flickered.

"_Quarantine complete... All systems normal... Elevators back online,_" said a female voice over the public address system.

The emergency lights switched off, and after an instant, the main lights fluttered on down the hallways, one after the other after the other in sequence. Sarge glanced up at the ceiling, and then looked back down at Reaper with a grin.

"It's finished," he said. "What do you say we... get some fresh air?"

Tank saw Reaper stiffen, and she did, too, a second later, when Sarge's gloves started to split open with the deformation of his hands... A heartbeat after that, Tank watched in silent sadness as Sarge went rigid with the agony of the transformation.

"Sam," she heard Reaper say, "can you get to the elevator?"

_Tank, can you?_

_It'll take some work, but yeah._

"I'm not sure," Sam whispered.

"Try."

Tank saw Reaper stand straight again, and a half a second later, Sam began to pull herself along with a whimper, heading around the corner and down the hall toward the elevator. Tank glanced one last time between Reaper and Sarge. Then she rolled herself onto her belly and began to drag herself across the floor, following Sam's path.

Tank brushed Reaper's mind in a gentle caress.

_Be careful, John,_ she whispered into his thoughts.

Reaper didn't reply, totally focused on Sarge. Tank pulled herself through the doorway that led to the room that contained the elevators. She spotted Sam just up ahead, collapsed from the pain of her broken ribs and destroyed organs. Tank pulled herself alongside Sam, grabbed the blond woman by the back of her shirt, and began to drag them both along.

Sam whimpered with the motions, but was otherwise uncomplaining.

They were just in time, too: a few minutes after Tank had caught up to Sam, Tank smelled ozone for a brief second before a rolling wave of intense heat washed through the room as the floor in the hallway was slagged by the gun Sarge had been toting.

Tank heard Reaper return fire, glad that her husband wasn't hurt. Then she continued to pull Sam along, away from the battle zone.

She heard the sounds of the fight move off down the hall, toward the Ark chamber.

A few minutes of relative silence passed. Tank, even with her enhanced strength, had to take a brief rest. She used that time to contact Duke and the Kid.

"Duke," she called into her comm. "Kid. Do you read me?"

There was a brief burst of static. "_We read you loud 'n' clear, Tank. What's the situation?_"

"Sarge's turning," Tank explained. "Reaper's holding him off, but Sarge has a big fuckin' gun, and I think he's got one round left, at least."

She paused. This was going to be difficult.

"Listen, guys," she began, "I need you to promise me something."

"_Anything,_" the Kid said. Tank took a deep breath.

"I need you to go ahead and go to the surface," she said. "Promise me you'll tell everybody that asks that you don't know Reaper's, Sarge's, Sam's, or my fates. Tell them that we're MIA, probably dead."

"_What?_" demanded Duke. "_Why?_"

"Swear it!" Tank exclaimed. "Swear it on your honor as Marines that you'll never tell a soul that we're alive!"

There was a brief pause. "_Alright, we swear. Now are you goin' to tell us where your insanity's coming from?_"

"Reaper and I have been injected with chromosome twenty-four," Tank explained softly. "We're not human, anymore, and if the corporations get their hands on us, it's likely that we'll spend the rest of our lives as lab rats."

She paused, looking over at Sam's pained features. "Sam's dying. I'm going to inject her with C-24, also."

"_Then what?_" asked the Kid. Tank gave a wry half-smile.

"I hear Diomede is nice, this time of year," she said with a quiet chuckle. "Tell them that you two're the only survivors, and then clear the area. We'll probably hike to the nearest town, find a place to stay. Then we'll make our way up north, to Alaska. Stay there for a few years, until all the hubbub dies down."

"_Or until someone finds you,_" Duke deadpanned.

Tank sighed. "If they find us, we'll go somewhere that they can't get to us. Another country, probably. I've gotta work it out with John, first."

"_Right,_" Duke said. There was a pause. "_We ever gonna see you again?_"

"I'll keep in touch," Tank promised. "Get a hold of Hellraiser, tell him that we died honorably, doing our jobs. Tell my family that we're MIA."

"_Roger,_" the Kid said. "_Hey, call us when you get to Alaska, right?_"

"_And give us your new names and address so we can ship your things up to you, 'cuz I do _not_ wanna be saddled with a pair of bunny slippers for the next few years._"

Tank chuckled. "Will do. Don't get dead before the next time I see you, 'kay?"

"_Yes, ma'am,_" they chorused.

"_So long, Tank,_" Duke said. "_Happy trails._"

"And to you."

"_Bye!_" the Kid said.

"Bye," Tank returned. Then she switched off her comm and took the headset out of her ear. She stared at it for a second, contemplating.

Then she tucked it into her vest and picked Sam up again.

By the time that they got to the elevator two minutes later, Tank was able to somewhat move her legs again. She knelt next to Sam and propped the younger woman against the wall.

Sam coughed wetly, and blood trickled out of her mouth to dribble down her chin, further staining her white clothes scarlet.

"Sam," Tank called gently, tapping Sam's cheek. Sam's hazel eyes fluttered open so that she could look at Tank.

"Sam, I'm going to inject you with C-24," Tank explained slowly. "Where is it?"

"Extra vial," Sam choked out, "in my med pouch. You'll know it."

Tank nodded, and reached down to Sam's hip, easily opening the pouch with her dexterous fingers. She found the vial almost immediately, as well as a syringe. The tourniquet that Sam had used for Reaper had been discarded back where they had left him after his transformation- it had snapped when his muscles grew.

Tank reached into her own medical bag for the first time that night and withdrew her bottle of rubbing alcohol, a cotton ball, and a tourniquet.

Tank wasted no time, setting the vial of C-24 and the plastic-wrapped syringe down on the floor. She quickly rolled up Sam's sleeve and tied the tourniquet tightly around her upper arm. Then Tank uncapped the bottle of rubbing alcohol, wet the cotton ball with it, and then capped it again before she gently swabbed the crook of Sam's arm.

Reaper's scent hit Tank's nose again just as she opened the syringe and shoved the needle through the lid of the vial. He came around the corner, weary but victorious, as Tank pulled back the plunger, sucking the serum into the body of the syringe.

His eyes immediately landed on Tank's occupied hands.

"What the fuck is that?" he inquired, coming to kneel next to his wife and his sister. Tank glanced at him, her gaze solemn.

"It's chromosome twenty-four," she said. He stared at her in shocked horror for a second, and then made a grab for it. Tank dodged his hands and shoved him back with the hand that wasn't holding the syringe, glaring at him.

"Stop that!" she exclaimed. Reaper glowered at her, and she briefly noticed his hands clenching into fists. She realized what it must look like to him, and leveled a sad look at him, lowering the syringe.

"John," she said softly, "look at your sister. Tell me what you see."

Reaper briefly glanced at Sam, and then turned back to Tank with the same stubbornness that he had displayed earlier that night during his argument with his sister.

"I see that there's no reason to change her!"

"She's dying, John!" Tank snapped. Reaper immediately froze, and his gaze went back to his sister.

"But... how?" he asked, sounding lost. Tank sighed, and then spoke rapid-fire.

"After you 'died', the demons broke through the barrier and we had to run." She put her free hand on Sam's neck, measuring her pulse.

_Too fast, too thready, she's slipping into shock._

"We were running up a flight of stairs when an imp caught Sam around the ankle. She went down, and fell on her side on the top step. Some of her ribs broke, pierced her lung, and she has other internal injuries, not to mention a broken ankle."

Reaper looked back into Tank's solemn eyes, desperate. "What if we get her to help? Medical attention?"

He clenched his fists helplessly. "Anything but this...!"

Tank took pity on her husband, and reached out to lace her fingers through his. "Even if we got her to the surface and to medical help, she's too far gone, John. The injuries are too extensive, and she's lost too much blood. They wouldn't be able to help her, and she'd still die. Not to mention that we'd probably get taken in for questioning... and, if worse comes to worst, we'd get used as lab rats."

She briefly squeezed his hand. "You know that, John."

She could sense his rage.

He pulled his hand out of hers to punch the wall. Tank absently noted that he left a good-sized dent.

"I hate this!" he roared. "I hate being so fucking useless!"

"I know," Tank whispered. "But it's the only way to save her, John, and she's already consented to it."

Reaper looked over at her, his eyes pained. "What if she turns? What if we have to kill her?"

Tank shook her head, and turned back to Sam. The blond's eyes were closed, her breathing shallow. Tank could hear her heartbeat getting weaker.

"Then we kill her," she whispered. "Either way, she'll die, and if not, then she'll live... become like us."

Reaper was silent, his breathing heavy with his emotions, but Tank didn't wait for his consent. Tank grabbed Sam's arm and plunged the needle into her vein, pumping the serum into Sam's body.

Tank took a second to swab the spot after drawing the needle back out, and untied the tourniquet, putting it back into her pouch.

Then she sat back, watching her sister-in-law for signs. Reaper settled down, also, once he realized that the deed had already been done, and that he could do nothing about it.

"So, what happened?" Tank asked softly, just before Sam's transformation began. Sam seized, her fingers fisted, she gasped for air, her eyes went wide... It was almost like watching Reaper transform, all over again, only this time, Tank had steeled herself against the emotions and was watching for signals that would tell her whether Sam was turning into a superhuman or a monster.

Reaper, however, wasn't so relaxed, and he jolted forward, trying to help his sister. Tank held him back, though, pushing him back into a sitting position.

"There's nothing you can do, John," Tank murmured. "She won't feel or hear it if you try to help her, anyway. This is her own trial, just like you had yours... and I had mine."

Reaper shrugged her hands off and sat back down, eyes trained anxiously on Sam.

Sam's body was thickening, strengthening. Tank could see the scientist's muscles bulking, could see the bones in her face becoming heavier, denser, though not in nearly as extreme a way as Reaper's had.

_A difference between the sexes, maybe?_

After a few minutes, Sam collapsed onto the floor. Tank heard Sam's heart stop beating, and heard her give her last breath as a human.

Sam hadn't turned into a monster.

"What happened, John?" Tank queried again after a moment. "What happened between you and Sarge?"

"We fought," Reaper grunted, his words clipped and strangled. "I threw him into the Ark, tossed a grenade in after him, and set some explosives in the Ark chamber. They'll take out this facility and the rest of the demons."

"Right," Tank murmured. "We'd better get going, then."

Reaper looked at her, askance. "But she's still unconscious!"

"But she's not a monster, John," Tank said, exasperated. "If she was going to turn into a demon, the changes would've occurred- or started occurring- by now. No, she's like you and me."

Reaper stared at her for a second. "How do you know?"

"The first to change is the scent," Tank explained, tapping the side of her nose. "I noticed it with Sarge... and with you. Sam's scent is the same, just a little more... potent."

Reaper looked back at his sister. Tank could see his nostrils flaring as he inhaled. After a second, he shook his head.

"I only smell you," he murmured. Tank blinked at the unexpected comment.

"Really?" she said, lifting her eyebrows. Reaper nodded, and his clenched fists tightened.

"Yeah," he exhaled. It was almost like a gasp... _Oh._ "It's driving me crazy."

"Yeah, I can smell," Tank muttered. She gazed with some amusement at her husband. "We need to get laid."

"Definitely," Reaper agreed. Tank chuckled.

"Now that that's settled, can you help me up?" she asked. "My legs aren't functioning properly."

Reaper cast her an inquiring glance, but helped her up nonetheless. "Why not?"

"Sarge shot me through the spine," Tank explained as he carried her over to the elevator and set her down against the wall.

Reaper's eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "When was this?"

"Go get Sam," Tank ordered, changing the subject, "there're still demons in there."

Reaper jumped and hurried to do as he was told. He returned a heartbeat later with Sam cradled in his arms. Then he hit the button that would close the doors. The doors closed as ordered, and the lift started for the surface. It seemed to move slowly to Tank, especially compared to how it had been coming down.

"When did Sarge shoot you?"

Tank sighed. "About ten minutes before you got there. But his scent had already begun changing by that time. I got careless, and he shot me. What happened next is between me and... well, no one, I guess."

"What?"

Tank glanced at him, annoyed. "He was one of my oldest friends, John. We just said goodbye."

She frowned into space after this conclusion, knowing that, even if he didn't press the issue now, Reaper would want a full explanation later. And maybe she would give it to him... but right now the hurt was still too fresh.

"So, where to now?" she asked after a moment. Reaper looked down at her.

"I don't know," he admitted. "If I was sure we'd be safe from the scientists, I'd be all for going back to the barracks, but..."

"That's what I was thinking," Tank said, her frown deepening slightly. "I had Duke and the Kid evac a little while before you found me and Sam. There shouldn't be anybody waiting for us up top."

"Right," Reaper muttered. Tank looked up at him.

"Are you mad at me?"

He barked a quiet laugh. "Mad?" He paused, and there was something dark in his gaze. "You just took away my sister's humanity. Of _course_ I'm not mad."

Tank rolled her eyes with a scowl. "Evasiveness and bitter sarcasm don't suit you, John. Just tell me the straight truth when you're angry or not."

Reaper didn't answer. Tank sighed, and leaned back against the wall of the elevator. A second later, sunlight began to flood down on them from above. Tank looked up to see the surface portal opening overhead, allowing the early-morning sunlight to pour through.

"Almost home," she heard Reaper murmur.

_Yeah,_ Tank mused. _But... is home really home, anymore?_

* * *

_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own Doom. I only own Tank, now, as well as the camp-bracelet I'm working on. ;)_

_To quote M. Night Shyamalan, "What a twist!"_

_And so ends the Olduvai arc. I know, it was pathetically short… but hey, this story is about backstory and how people became who they are. That's my take on it, and that's why this section is so short compared to all the other parts (which span YEARS). Next chapter will probably be the last one, aside from a possible epilogue._

_Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! __**angel19872006**__, __**Crye 4 Me**__, **st. elmo**__**-lover**__, and __**Bella-doll**__, you all are awesome! And I hope that this answers all your questions. ;)_

_Next chapter should be posted 9-23-10._

_-__**P**__ortrait of a __**S**__cribe_


	44. 2046 AD Nevada 1200 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_Finchè c'è vita c'è speranza. As long as there is life there is hope."  
–Italian saying_

__

**Chapter 43.**

* * *

_**2046 A.D. - Battle Mountain Inn, Crescent Valley, Nevada - 1200 hours**_

Tank sighed with some relief as she stepped into the cool atrium of a semi-familiar inn in the little town of Crescent Valley, Nevada. It was a modest place, with two stories and a total of probably fifty or so rooms. She knew it to be reasonably-priced, which was why she had chosen it.

She, Reaper, and a barely-conscious Sam had emerged from the Ark facility at around six in the morning, only to find that the area was deserted, as Tank had predicted. They had immediately evacuated the area, Tank shakily leading the way due west. Just three minutes after their swift departure, an enormous rumbling had shaken the ground, and just like that, Tank knew that the facility had been destroyed.

_Good riddance,_ she had thought even as the tremors had driven her to her knees.

She and Reaper had made good time walking over the rough terrain. They had stopped for a break at around ten, though. By that time, Sam had come around and was lucid, if a bit groggy. Tank gave her sister-in-law one of her nutrition bars, knowing that she would be hungry. Tank and Reaper had eaten, also, and then they had gone on their way.

They had walked the rest of the way, taking the time to get used to their new senses. Tank had been astounded by how much she had been able to smell, hear, _feel_. Even the slightest brush of wind on her skin had felt like a lover's caress, and the air smelled so fresh and clear that she could have died happy.

But really, what she had missed that she had found renewed pleasure in was the heat.

Nevada's climate provided dry heat that was vastly different from Missouri's wet heat. Tank's black jumpsuit and vest meant that, yes, she was uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as she would have been if she'd been back home in Missouri.

Still, she had relished it. As of late, she'd never been able to feel warm, even on the hottest of days, and when she'd had the opportunity to, she had been unable to enjoy it on account of the pain her cancer had given her. And space, Olduvai, had been cold, even colder than she would ever have imagined it being.

Tank decided that she loved the heat.

And she also rejoiced in her newfound healing factor. Her cracked vertebrae and fractured ribs had mended, and she was able to walk upright without pain. The wound she had sustained from the pipe had, of course, sealed, her liver had mended without- she suspected- even a scar to show for it. She couldn't feel any bruises or cuts... but, perhaps most importantly, she couldn't feel her cancer.

No matter what she did, she couldn't find that discomfort, that pain, that familiar unease that had haunted her even before she'd been diagnosed. There was no pain, no nausea. She didn't feel shaky or ill in any way.

Still, she had decided to wait to share that discovery until they'd found a place to stay.

Tank had taken into consideration some of the difficulties they might face, especially if they were trying to remain unnoticed. For one thing, their battered and bloody clothing, still smelling liberally of sewage, would draw attention. For another, their weapons and body armor would probably bring the police down on their heads.

Not to mention that Tank and Reaper were crusted head to toe in dried blood and other things...

Also, if they used any credit cards or anything, they would leave a digital fingerprint that the UAC or RRTS could trace them by.

They would have to transfer funds, withdraw enough to get them up north...

Tank decided that it could wait until later. All she currently wanted was a shower, a hot meal, and a soft bed to collapse into for a nice, long nap... preferably with Reaper either beside her or on top of her...

Tank's cheeks flushed slightly and she jerked herself out of her thoughts, noticing that the receptionist was openly staring at her, Sam, and Reaper. Tank flashed a brief smile at her husband and sister-in-law, and then approached the receptionist.

The young man recoiled at the stench that rose off of Tank.

"G-Good afternoon, ma'am," he said, his voice strangled. "Welcome to the Battle Mountain Inn."

"Good afternoon," she greeted with what she hoped was a disarming smile. "I would like two rooms, please."

"S-Sure," he gasped out. "May I have the name?"

"Halleman," Tank supplied, giving him the first thing she could think of, "Blair Halleman, and that's my husband, Dale, and my sister-in-law, Kelly."

The young man typed it in on the computer sitting on the desk in front of him. "Right. You'll be in 2-B and 2-C. Second floor, on the left."

He cast her a look up and down, and Tank could tell that he was slightly intimidated. "Will you be needing anything? A change of clothes?"

Tank sighed in relief. "Yes, and some toiletries, if there're any on hand. Dale and I are in the military. We just got done with a mission, but we missed our ride back to base and'll have to crash here until we can get a lift. If you have any food, that would be much appreciated, too."

"Will do," he croaked out, and then handed her a pair of old-fashioned metal keys. "And it's on the house. Owner's got a deal with the military. Don't worry about payment."

Tank blinked in surprise. "Wow. Sounds like a plan... Thank you."

She took the keys and walked back over to Reaper and Sam. Reaper wordlessly led the way upstairs, and Sam followed him after a second. Tank glanced around the lobby one last time and then hoofed it up the staircase that led around one side of the room.

Before Tank realized it, she was standing outside a pair of rooms, marked 2-B and 2-C, and she looked around to see her husband and sister-in-law staring at her expectantly.

"Oh, right," she mumbled, fumbling with the keys. Then a thought struck her, and she looked up at them. "Uh, who wants to room with who?"

Sam glanced between them, sensing the silent tension that had built between the husband and wife duo through the day. Then she reached out to take the 2-C key with a small smile.

"I think I'll sleep alone," she said, and eyed her brother. "I don't fancy getting woken up in the middle of the night by a kick in the ribs."

Reaper looked affronted. "I haven't tossed and turned like that since we were kids, Sam!" he protested. "Besides, _you_ were always the one who would start out the night with your head on the pillow and wake up with your head by my feet!"

Tank grinned. "That sounds familiar."

Sam shrugged. "We slept together a lot when we were little," she explained, turning to unlock her door, "especially after..."

She trailed off, her hand briefly pausing, but then she silently finished unlocking the door and turned the knob. Reaper was a silent, solemn presence at Tank's side.

"Well, I'm gonna take a shower," Sam announced suddenly. "Would you like to meet me for lunch, or should I expect you for dinner?"

Tank's cheeks flushed slightly at the insinuations, but she shrugged. "I was planning on a long, _hot_ shower and then a nap."

She stretched, hearing her back pop quietly. "Feel like I could sleep for a week."

"Me, too," Sam chuckled. "Sweet dreams, you two."

"You, too, Sam," Tank returned, and then turned to unlock their door while Sam entered her room and closed her door behind her. The lock came unlatched after a moment's fiddling, and Tank swung the door inward and stepped inside.

She immediately began checking out the room, hearing Reaper come in behind her, closing the door and locking it again.

The room itself was relatively modest, maybe the size of Tank's parents' master bedroom back in Missouri. A small table was set against the wall to the right of the door, with two chairs accompanying it. To the left of the door, opposite the wall that divided their room and Sam's, was the bathroom, complete with a shower and tub and fluffy white towels and washcloths. Farther into the room sat the bed and a dresser, and then came a window, underneath which there sat an air conditioner.

Against the wall to the right sat a lumpy loveseat sofa. It was that which Tank made for after she popped into the bathroom to grab a towel.

Tank set her assault rifle down on the loveseat after she covered the cushions with the towel. Following the rifle were her sniper rifle and her submachine gun, after which came her medical pouch and her utility belt. Last to go was her vest.

Tank rolled her shoulders with some delight, glad to be out of that comfortable-but-stifling shell. She inhaled deeply... and caught wind of Reaper, overlaid by sewage and blood. Tank wrinkled her nose.

"I need a shower... desperately," she muttered. She turned to the bathroom, peering inside. Reaper was already in there, setting his light machine gun down and stripping out of his armor and belt, setting it all down on the tile floor.

"Sweet Jesus, we _reek!_" Tank exclaimed, entering the bathroom. Reaper cast her a glance before she nimbly stepped around him and his equipment to examine the inside of the shower.

"Soap, shampoo, conditioner," she murmured, and then nodded, satisfied, and started the water running. Tank glanced back at Reaper's equipment.

"Better get that outta here," she recommended. Reaper sighed, picked up his machine gun, belt, and body armor, and carried them out of the room. As he did that, Tank worked on peeling off her reeking jumpsuit and smelly boots. She let it fall to the floor, stifling a grimace at the stiffness of the well-worn fabric. Then she glanced in the mirror at herself as she pulled off her tank top.

Even underneath her jumpsuit, she was encrusted in blood and sweat. The spot where the pipe wound in her stomach had been was unblemished save for the faintest of scars; the exit wound from Sarge's bullet was fresher, still slightly raw. The other bullet wound in her shoulder was also healed as to leave only the barest of marks.

Her underclothes were ruined, though.

Tank just sighed and stripped out of them before she leaned into the shower, switched the nozzle, and pulled the curtain closed. A second later, the showerhead blasted out warm water. Tank sighed and skirted the curtain to step into the soothing stream.

Immediately, the dirt, grime, and blood of the mission began to wash away, swirling darkly around the drain before vanishing. Tank heard Reaper come in as she reached for the shampoo.

"Hey," he called, sounding almost petulant, "I was in here first!"

"Well, you took so long that I figured I could get done and out before you came back," Tank jabbed. She heard the sound of him stripping down. She ignored it in favor of lathering up her shoulder-length brown hair.

When the shower curtain was suddenly pulled aside to admit Reaper, however, Tank squeaked in surprise.

"John!" she squawked, exasperated. "You could've warned me!"

"Didn't feel the need to," he deadpanned as he pulled the curtain closed again. Tank sighed with resignation as he reached for the soap.

They washed in silence for a minute, doing a strange sort of do-si-do to change places when they needed to. But Tank eventually found herself staring at Reaper's body, wondering...

"So, did it scar?" she asked nonchalantly a second later. Reaper briefly glanced at her over his shoulder.

"Did what scar?" he countered. Tank sighed inaudibly and reached around Reaper to press a soapy hand to his lower abdomen, deciding to feel for herself. She ignored his slight flinch.

"That shot you took," she explained. Just as she had thought- only a faint scar to show for the wound that had nearly killed him.

She sighed, and withdrew her hand in favor of soaping up a washcloth and running it over her skin. Tank finished just under a minute later and edged around her husband so that she could rinse off, turning slowly underneath the warm jet of water. She could feel his eyes on her the whole time.

It was as she ducked her head to rinse her hair that he growled softly and slipped his arms around her middle. Tank stiffened slightly, at first. Then she relaxed, finished washing her hair, and turned around in his embrace so that she could lay her hands on her husband's chest.

Only then did she notice the cross necklace that was resting in the hollow of his throat.

"John," Tank murmured, reaching up to caress his neck. Her touch brushed down the column of his throat to linger on the cross, the gift he had given her on her last birthday. His hand came up to cover her own. Tank looked up into his eyes, seeing a mixture of things there... mostly grief, relief, and love.

"You were dead," he whispered, gaze searching. "You were dead, and..."

Reaper trailed off, and Tank was painfully reminded of his own death. She reached up with the same hand to caress and cradle his cheek in her palm.

"I know," she said, swallowing against the lump in her throat. "It was so painful to watch you die, watch you transform, not knowing for certain whether you'd be superhuman or a monster..." Tank blinked rapidly, trying to pretend that the moisture in her eyes was shower water and not tears. "And then, to leave you like we did... in the path of the monsters..."

Reaper drew her to him then, covering her mouth with his. The kiss was desperate, a physical manifestation of the desire, the _need_, to reaffirm the reality of their continuing lives.

Tank closed her eyes with a sigh, looping her arms around his neck. His tongue probed her lips, seeking entrance, and she granted it eagerly, needing to feel him, to know that this wasn't just a dream...

As she threaded her right hand through his short hair, she knew that this was _real-_ she had been healed, and she and Reaper were still alive, and they were going to grow old together, after all.

_And maybe raise a kid or two, too,_ she mused silently as the kiss heated up. Reaper hummed into her mouth.

"Don't know if I'd mind that," he mumbled before he bit her lower lip. Tank gasped and flinched slightly, tasting a bit of blood. Then she moaned softly with ecstasy when he gently sucked on it, nursing the wound.

Tank drew a deep breath and darted her tongue out to tangle with his before plunging into his mouth. She lifted one leg to hook it around Reaper's thigh, rubbing the inside of her knee against his hip. Reaper growled, grabbed her waist, and bodily lifted her to wrap her legs around his waist while he pinned her to the wall of the shower using his broad chest. Tank mewled into his mouth when she felt his growing arousal against her hip. She pressed herself more fully against him, reached down with one hand to gently rub against his crotch. Reaper gasped into her, pulling out of the kiss so that he could lean his forehead against the wall. He arched into Tank's touch.

She was faintly surprised when he released a breath against her shoulder in an unmistakable plea. Tank panted against him, both their chests heaving. The heat blossoming between her thighs ached for him, desiring completion like she hadn't felt since she turned twenty-six. It finally came to a point where Reaper snatched her hand away with a growl, his own palm dipping down to press upward into Tank's wet core. She gasped, whimpered, arched off the wall into him as he probed her, tweaking that bundle of nerves with his thumb while he inserted one, and then two fingers into her.

_Goooood!_ she heard him growl hazily in his mind. Tank gasped for air, spreading her legs a bit wider.

_Oh, God, John!_ she thought wildly when he hit that special spot inside of her. She moaned out loud.

Tank almost cried when Reaper took his hand away a second later- she had been right_ there_, right at that edge- but she really did gasp and whimper when he pressed his chest against hers, positioning himself _just_ _right-_

Her instant moan of gratification was audible over the sound of the water, and his own, masculine groan wasn't long in following. She could sense his ecstasy, his satisfaction, as he sheathed himself fully inside her. For a second, she thought she would never be able to breathe again for the sheer _pleasure_ of being united with him again.

Unconsciously, she reached out with her mind, groping for his, wanting so badly to share with him the sensations she was feeling that she latched onto him.

He whimpered- _whimpered!_- as the connection between their minds grew, and she, in turn, gasped breathlessly as his own thoughts and feelings flooded into her brain.

_So _that's_ what it feels like for you,_ she mused to him, her mental voice hazy, unfocused. In reply, he growled and captured her mouth with his, his kiss a scalding, burning thing that only aroused her further. By the time that he finally began moving inside her a couple of seconds later, Tank was sure that she was hyperventilating from the sheer pleasure she was giving and receiving. She broke off their kiss in favor of leaning her face into his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his neck as she struggled for breath through the surge of sensations.

The tile wall was cold and hard behind her back- she was vaguely aware of the fact that she could have bruises from this, but she didn't care. It provided an exquisite contrast to Reaper's heat, her own warmth, the inferno inside and between them. It just made her breathe harder, reassured her that this was _real_, that it wasn't some heavenly fantasy.

Tank's chest rubbed against Reaper's with every gasp they took, sending waves of wildfire burning through her even as flames as hot as hell itself lashed through her belly, tensing, _tensing..._

She could sense him drawing close- both were beyond rational thought, by now- and with every thrust, every stroke, Tank felt her own pleasure plus his and knew that he was feeling hers secondary to his own. The pressure inside of her was building, she couldn't keep it in-

Tank drew Reaper's mouth to hers right before she came.

Her scream was muffled by the open-mouthed kiss, and she took in his own ragged shout as she crashed down on her climax around him and sensed exactly what he felt as he erupted inside of her.

She pulled away from him just so that she could pull enough air into her lungs not to faint.

Tank swore that she saw stars and heard bells as she came down from the most intense, most satisfying release she had ever had, feeling whole, complete, sated. Reaper leaned heavily against her, knees weak from the force of his climax. His high lasted almost two minutes, but she let him ride hers for the three minutes she lasted after his abated. When it finally died down, Reaper slid them down the wall, kneeling on the floor of the shower, both of them quaking violently and gasping for air.

They didn't speak, but rather just sat there for a few minutes in absolute silence, not thinking, not talking, just holding each other. Tank's legs still spasmed occasionally from the lingering tension in her muscles, but otherwise they were both still.

Eventually, Reaper dazedly slipped out of her, and, keeping his arms around her, got shakily to his feet. Tank didn't move from where she had her legs wrapped around his waist, but instead nuzzled the side of his neck with her nose while the warm water cascaded around and over them.

Once they had been thoroughly rinsed, Tank set her feet down on the floor of the tub, reached back, and turned off the water. Then they dried themselves with the towels from the rack.

After a few minutes, they managed to leave the bathroom, stumbling over their clothes on the way out, and tumbled into the bed. Tank barely managed to pull the sheets up to their waists before she collapsed across Reaper's chest, her left arm stretched out across his shoulders while she nestled into the crook of his shoulder.

"That," she mumbled dazedly at last, "was absolutely _amazing._"

Reaper growled low in his throat, contented and sated, and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her lithe form to him as he hid his face in her hair. Tank sighed, satisfied, and shifted herself to a more comfortable position on top of him. She ducked her head so that she could lean her forehead into the side of his neck.

"I love you, John," she whispered. There was a second of silence.

Reaper's arms tightened around her briefly. "I love you, too, Amanda. So much..."

His voice was slightly strangled, choked. Tank stiffened slightly before she shakily pushed herself up to look into her husband's eyes. He wouldn't meet her gaze.

"John?" she queried, reaching up to gently stroke his cheek. "John, what is it?"

She saw him swallow. "I keep thinking I'm going to wake up. That it'll have all been a dream..."

Tank stared down at him sadly, and gently directed his gaze back to her own.

"I'm not going to leave you, John," she whispered. "And I'm not going to die, either. I'm going to stay with you until time takes us."

He finally looked up at her of his own volition, lifting his hand to run his fingertips down the side of her face.

"What about...?"

"The cancer?" Tank shook her head. "I don't know for sure, but I don't think it's there, anymore."

Tank could see his brow crease, and laid a finger over his lips to silence him.

"Don't, John," she commanded softly. "Not now, not when we've just gotten out of a life-or-death ordeal and had a wonderful, _wonderful_ shower. No, John, right now, let's just rest like we planned. Then we'll figure out where we're going to go from here."

Reaper sighed softly and kissed her, their lips gently meshing together with the tender caress. He laced his fingers through her wet hair, his thumb stroking her cheek. Tank melted against him.

After a moment, they parted again, and Tank shifted to cuddle against his side, tracing an absent pattern on the smooth skin of his chest.

"Are you still mad at me?" she asked quietly. Reaper grunted noncommittally.

"I wasn't really that mad in the first place," he murmured, running a hand down her back. There was a pause. "You really scared me back there, Amanda."

A beat. "I know. You scared me, too."

"And Sam scared us both," he decided.

"Is that why you seemed so angry?"

Reaper let out a breath, and he squeezed her waist gently. "Yeah."

Tank buried her nose in his shoulder. "I love you, John. More than anything."

"I love you, too."

There was a moment of contemplative silence, and then Tank looked up at her husband's face. She pursed her lips for a second. Then she levered herself up and straddled his waist. Reaper's eyes widened with surprise. Tank braced her hands on Reaper's shoulders and leaned down...

...only to gently press her forehead against his.

"Amanda, what're you-?" he gasped, but he never finished.

Tank opened her mind to his, allowing him to sense exactly how deep her love for him ran. She could sense his shock for an instant, and then he relaxed, and their memories, thoughts, and emotions flowed freely between their minds, until they could only barely tell where one of them ended and the other began.

Even after Tank pulled herself off of him to rest at his side once more, they kept their eyes closed, their breathing even and synchronized, foreheads touching. It was like that that they finally slipped off into sleep, sharing dreams even as they had shared their memories.

And, for the first time in well over a year, two Marines were fully at peace.

* * *

_**2047 A.D. - Barrow, Alaska - 0530 hours**_

The room was dark.

It was currently around 0530 hours, and she had woken early, though the twilight wouldn't crest the horizon for another two or three hours, still. Tank couldn't place exactly what had woken her; Reaper was still sleeping peacefully, spooned against her back, and she could sense Sam slumbering in the next room over. So what...?

Tank's answer came when her stomach churned faintly. She sighed, snuggling back into Reaper's warmth, and tried to ignore the feeling.

It was not to be.

Instead of going away, the sensation lingered, getting stronger as the moments passed. To take her mind off of her discomfort, Tank thought back to the events of the past months since the July twenty-fifth Olduvai Incident.

_They had left Crescent Valley behind in the middle of the night after they had recuperated somewhat and Tank and Reaper had washed their uniforms and equipment of the grime of battle. They'd donned their vests underneath the clothes that they were given by the inn, and they had hidden their guns and supplies in a couple of backpacks. Tank had had to disassemble her sniper rifle to fit it into her pack._

_The three of them had made their way to the nearest airstrip after leaving Crescent Valley. Tank and Reaper had been able to withdraw enough of their funds from their bank accounts to get them north to Barrow, Alaska._

_They had discussed it thoroughly the night before, finally deciding to forgo Diomede and head for Barrow. Reaper had originally protested, claiming that they would easily be found, but Tank had pointed out that Barrow was isolated, had a relatively small population, and was the major economic center for northern Alaska. They would be able to get supplies anytime they needed, and besides, she and Sam could get jobs as doctors, with their training._

_Three days later on July twenty-ninth, the trio had arrived in Barrow, Alaska, and settled in to their new home._

Now, it was March third. Since it was Sunday, Tank wouldn't have to go in to work unless one of her students called with a request for homework help, but that probably wouldn't happen. After all, art students usually didn't have to ask for tutoring.

Reaper shifted behind her, and Tank felt him rub his nose against the back of her neck. He was off for the day, too, as long as nobody's house caught fire. After their arrival in Barrow, he had quickly gotten a job as a fireman. Tank loved to tease him about it, but she knew that the job was as serious as their Marine positions had been.

Tank's stomach churned again, and she sighed and disentangled herself from Reaper's arms, careful not to wake him up. As she exited the room on silent feet, she heard Sam turn over in her bed in the next room over. Sam taught the new forensic archaeology course at the college. She was more likely than Tank was to be called out of the house.

As she crept down the hallway to the small kitchen, Tank winced slightly, feeling her breasts scrape against the fabric of her t-shirt. They had been somewhat tender, lately. However, as her feet left the soft carpet runner that covered the laminate tile, her discomfort was pushed away as she was once again inwardly grateful for the changes that the C-24 had bestowed upon her body- the floor was icy beneath her feet.

It had turned out that the C-24 had done more to them than Sam had originally predicted it would. Their senses were certainly enhanced, and their molecular structure had become much more dense than a normal human's. However, the source of their new abilities didn't seem to be so much physical as mental.

_The second week in Barrow, Tank and Sam had decided to finally find out what the full extent of the changes wrought by the C-24 was. The three of them had left home for the day during a Saturday's predawn hours, and had vanished deep into the plains to the south. There they had tested each other._

_Their findings were astonishing._

_Tank had had a slightly bizarre and seemingly ridiculous idea that stemmed from the old stories about Superman. She'd decided to see if she could fly._

_It had worked- but not quite in the way she had imagined it._

_As it turned out, the "super intelligence" that Sam had once mentioned hadn't only been inclusive of memory. It seemed that their minds were now so powerful that they had developed a sort of self-telekinesis, meaning that they could move their bodies._

_Tank had then suggested that their enhanced speed and strength were actually a subconscious thing- that they were actually _willing_ themselves to move faster, to be stronger. When they tested it out, they had discovered that her theory was proven correct: the faster they wanted their bodies to move, the faster their bodies moved. And not only that, but Tank, at least, had enough willpower to literally will herself off of the ground._

That_ had taken some getting used to._

_Reaper had been the one to discover, on that tangent, that he could make himself see farther and farther away, and even see straight through things. He had been looking at Tank when he suddenly flushed slightly and turned away._

It was with a surreal sense of disbelief that Tank had mentioned that their lives had begun to seem more and more like some Superman drama.

She couldn't have been closer to the truth.

_When Sam had suddenly set aflame a patch of lichen she had been gazing at, Tank and Reaper had both briefly panicked- until Reaper had taken in a lungful of the arctic air around them and forcefully blown out the fire. His breath had come out positively frigid, even more so than the surrounding air._

_It was well after dark when they finally decided to call it quits for the day._

_They had turned to each other with a sense of wonder and foreboding before heading back to town. And their wonder had turned to shock when they discovered exactly how weary they were- all of their energy seemed spent. They had barely managed to make it back and eat something before they collapsed in their beds to sleep off the exhaustion._

As suspicions had mounted in their minds, Sam had taken and done some blood work, comparing the DNA to a sample of tissue that she had obtained from God-knows-where. All Tank knew was that it had once belonged to a hero known as 'Superman'.

The test results were conclusive. 'Superman' had had 24 chromosomes just like them.

The events of the months afterward had only proven their suspicions to be correct. Though they had learned how to temper their strength and control their new abilities, the potency of them had only decreased more and more during the polar night... until the sun had started coming up again in mid-February. The three of them had spent most of the day outside, or someplace with sunlight. By the time 2200 hours had rolled around, they were all thoroughly energized, and hadn't been able to sleep for some time.

Tank snapped out of her musings as her stomach gave a sudden lurch. She clapped a hand to her mouth, trying hard not to vomit, and made her way quickly back down the hallway to the bathroom.

She was just in time.

It had been a while since Tank had thrown up, but she found that she still hated it as much as she ever had. By the time her stomach was empty, her whole abdomen was cramping miserably and she was trembling with cold and with exhaustion.

Spitting into the toilet again, Tank flushed it and sat down to lean up against the bathtub. Her face felt hot, and a bead of sweat slid down her temple to her cheek even as she rested her head back against the cold tub.

"Lord, what in the world is wrong with me?" she questioned quietly. "I'm inhuman. I'm not supposed to be throwing up, anymore."

The nausea was still there, though it hadn't faded completely, and Tank was sure that she would probably be sick at least once more through the day. She wasn't looking forward to it.

Sighing, she closed her eyes and tried to find some rest.

Then a sudden, alarming thought flitted through her mind, and she sat up, heart racing.

Soon after their arrival in Barrow, Tank had gone to the hospital and had a checkup done by the resident gynecologist. He had said that she was in good shape, but that her intrauterine birth control device had outlived its usefulness. She'd had him remove it, but it would have been months until she could get another one put in, seeing as they would have to order one, first. Then the shipment had been delayed, and then another delay had occurred, and then it turned out that there had been an order mix-up...

Tank still didn't have a new birth control device after almost six months.

Her heart leapt into her throat as the nagging, hopeful possibility spun in her mind. Could it be...?

There was only one way that she would be able to find out at this hour.

Tank left the bathroom and quickly donned her gloves, snowsuit, and parka as well as her boots. Grabbing her house key from the hook near the phone, she pulled on a balaclava and headed for the door. In her haste, she accidentally slammed the door, but she didn't stop to find out whether or not the noise had woken Sam or Reaper. Instead, she dashed down the road toward the hospital.

The brisk wind whipped at the exposed skin around her eyes, tears watering her brandy-brown gaze before she blinked them away. She made it to the hospital in under ten minutes and went inside, her heart beating a mile a minute and her stomach doing flip-flops and twists.

She walked straight up to the night doctor in the emergency ward and caught his attention.

"Doctor Flanagan?" she asked nervously. The tall, balding, red-headed man in question turned to her from where he was sitting at a desk typing on a computer.

"Missus O'Brien," he surmised. The name was familiar on Tank's ears as the name that she, Reaper, and Sam had taken for their surname. "What brings you here at this hour?"

Tank swallowed, feeling her cheeks heat. "Do you have any pregnancy tests?"

Doctor Flanagan blinked, and then smiled. "Certainly. If you'll follow me...?"

Tank nodded, and the man stood up from his desk to lead the way back towards the examination rooms. She waited while he retrieved a small box from one of the storerooms, and then he directed her to a bathroom down the hallway. Tank gulped, and offered him a shaky grin before she ducked through the door and closed it behind her.

The box contained a home pregnancy test. Pulling down her pants and underwear and sitting on a toilet, Tank checked the expiration date, carefully read the instructions on the box- supplemented with her own prior knowledge- and then she tore it open and prepped herself for the test.

Swallowing with some difficulty, Tank took a deep breath and did as the instructions had stated. She then waited the given amount of time, clutching the test between trembling fingertips.

She closed her eyes, almost reluctant to look at the results.

Finally, she gathered up the nerve to see what the little stick said. Tank could have sworn her heart skipped a beat before it started pounding in her tender breast.

_Positive._

Licking her lips, Tank shakily got cleaned up and redressed. Then she calmly washed her hands and left the bathroom, her knees a little weak.

Doctor Flanagan was waiting for her outside the bathroom. "Well?"

Tank swallowed again. "Positive."

The doctor grinned at her. "Then congratulations."

But Tank wasn't so optimistic. "You know how finicky these tests can be, doctor. Do you have any others I can try?"

Doctor Flanagan nodded and left. He returned a moment later with two tests in hand- different brands, but with the same sensitivity levels.

Both of them came out as positive.

By the time that Tank had finished with the three tests, she was dazed enough that she had to sit down in a chair in the waiting room. Her stomach was fluttering and her world was spinning as she quietly mused over this turn of events.

"Would you like to take a blood test, Mrs. O'Brien?" Doctor Flanagan asked helpfully. Tank blanched, and shook her head vigorously.

"No!" she exclaimed vehemently. Then, softer, "No. I don't like needles."

When Doctor Flanagan gave her a strange look, Tank frowned slightly.

"I really, _really_ don't like needles," she elaborated. Doctor Flanagan chuckled, but didn't push the issue. Instead, he got her a glass of water, insisting that she drink it all, before he helpfully made her an appointment with the resident gynecologist for the following Monday.

"You'll have to have him look at you," he said. "He'll tell you when to come in for your checkups and what to eat and not to eat, and he should prescribe some prenatal vitamins for you. He'll also tell you what medicines you can and can't take while you're pregnant."

Tank gave him a shaky smile. "Thanks, but I've got a pretty good immune system. I don't think I'll need any medicines."

The doctor smiled back, and then showed her the door.

"Remember," he said as she left, "ten o'clock on Monday morning. Don't be late!"

Tank nodded dazedly, and then slowly made her way back up the street toward her home.

Her thoughts whirled in her mind as she took wobbly step after wobbly step, and she inwardly mused that she was probably pale enough that Reaper and Sam would think she had seen a ghost. But she figured she had good right to be.

After all, it wasn't every day that one of your greatest hopes, which you had thought might never come to pass, was realized. Now all the joys and fears of that revelation swirled around in her intelligent brain so quickly that she couldn't grasp or organize them.

When she finally managed to grasp onto one of those thoughts, Tank paused in the middle of the sidewalk before looking down at her belly. She couldn't see the shape of it through the layers of clothing that she was wearing, but...

_That's right. X-ray vision._

Tank took a deep breath and focused.

Slowly, the layers of her clothing were stripped away beneath her gaze, until she could see the skin of her belly beneath them. Then she delved deeper, narrowing her eyes so that she could see through to her internal organs. Locating her womb, she focused even further, and then-

_There!_

-she spotted it. The tiny infant was only a little over one inch long, but Tank's sensitive vision could see that it had developed all of its major organs, had ten fingers and ten toes, and that...

"Its heart is beating," she whispered to herself, feeling a lump form in her throat. Tank let her x-ray vision fade before she wobbled over to sit on the lowest step of a nearby house.

It was only then that she allowed herself to shed the joyful tears that had been building in her eyes for the past few minutes.

"Thank you, God," she half-sobbed and half-whispered into the windy sky. "Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you..."

It took her a few minutes to compose herself, but Tank walked the rest of the way home with a grin on her face.

Sam was awake when Tank entered their home, stomping snow off of her boots and hanging her balaclava on the rack near the entrance after she had shut the door firmly behind her. As Tank stripped out of her coat and snow pants, Sam emerged into the hallway from the kitchen, a mug of hot chocolate in her hands.

"Dare I ask what was so important that you had to leave the house so early?" Sam asked with a small smile, watching Tank take off her boots. "And in your pajamas, no less?"

Tank grinned, looking up at her sister-in-law as she finally managed to get her right boot off of her foot. "You won't believe me."

Sam arched a blond eyebrow, and handed Tank the cocoa when the brunette stood up. "Try me."

Tank laughed, and she and Sam walked into the kitchen as Tank sipped at the hot chocolate.

"Don't let John know," Tank cautioned. "I want to surprise him."

Sam's eyebrows shot up her forehead. "Ooh, now you've intrigued me," she said as they sat down at the kitchen table. "Tell me before I pee my pants in excitement."

Tank rolled her eyes. "Well, if you're going to be like _that_, then maybe I'll just make you wait."

Sam chuckled. "Okay, fine. What is it?"

"Swear you won't let him know!" Tank hissed, grinning. Now Sam grinned, too.

"Okay, I swear," she promised. Tank took a deep breath.

"I'm pregnant."

There was a moment of silence during which Sam stared, astonished, at Tank.

"Could you repeat that?" Sam finally asked, eyes wide. Tank giggled.

"I'm pregnant!" she whispered, unable to keep from beaming. "I'm pregnant, Sam!"

Sam took a second to process that, and then she laughed and leaned over to engulf Tank in a firm hug. For a moment, they just giggled together like schoolgirls, until finally Sam sat back. Both of them were beaming.

"I'm so happy for you!" Sam exclaimed softly. "Do you know how long...?"

"About two months," Tank replied, sipping her hot chocolate again as Sam went to retrieve her coffee from the counter where she had apparently left it. "I checked on it on my way home."

"Checked on what?"

Tank jumped at the sudden voice, inhaled a bit of her hot cocoa, and choked for a moment before she finally got her breath back and turned to glare at Reaper, who was standing in the doorway, looking groggy but amused.

Tank couldn't hold back her giggles for long, though, when she got a good look at Reaper's appearance.

He was wearing nothing save for a pair of gym shorts, and it was obvious that he had just risen by the way the wrinkles from his pillow were still pressed into his cheek. His hazel eyes were slightly bleary. But what made Tank crack up was the way that his hair was sticking up in all directions.

Sam wasn't long in following her sister-in-law's example after she, too, got a glimpse of her brother.

Reaper just rolled his eyes and sat down at the table in Sam's vacated seat. She scowled at him.

"Hey, that was my seat!" she protested. Reaper lifted his eyebrows questioningly.

"And how does that affect me?" he queried. Sam huffed, and moved over to the fridge while Reaper looked over at Tank.

"What did you have to check on at-" He paused, glancing at the clock on the wall. "-seven o'clock in the morning?"

Tank couldn't hold back a grin again, but she carefully kept her thoughts to herself. "I think I'll make you wait a while."

Reaper scrutinized her for a second, his gaze searching. "What is it you aren't telling me...?"

Tank didn't get the chance to answer, since it was at that moment that Sam decided to slosh a cup of ice water down her brother's back. It was almost comical, the way Reaper's eyes widened as he yelped at the sudden sensation of cold down his spine. Then Tank found herself helpless with laughter as he got up and chased Sam around the kitchen and down the hallway.

Tank eventually calmed herself, listening to the laughter and shouts of her husband and sister-in-law with a silly grin on her face as she finished off her hot chocolate and went to rinse out her cup.

Finally, Tank grabbed a towel from the linen closet and entered Sam's bedroom, where Reaper had her cornered. Sam was pleading with her brother not to do anything rash, backed up against her chest of drawers. Tank just rolled her eyes and threw the towel over Reaper's back, allowing her hands to land upon her husband's shoulders through the thick fabric.

Reaper didn't look back at her, but Tank could feel the muscles of his back begin to relax as she gently rubbed him down. Tank rolled her eyes again and then peered around Reaper's shoulder at Sam.

"Sam?" Tank asked. "Maybe you should evacuate the blast radius for a few hours."

Sam nodded, eyeing her brother warily, and edged around them out of the room. Reaper attempted to follow his sister, growling, but Tank's hands were steady on his shoulders, and she wouldn't let him go.

"You're staying right here," Tank ordered. "Besides, I have some news you might want to hear."

Reaper finally glanced back at her over his shoulder. She held his gaze for a few moments, and then she heard the front door open and close. Reaper stared at her a second longer, and then he sighed, looked heavenward for a second, and turned to face her fully.

"Well?" he questioned, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. "What is so important that it pulled me away from making my sister wet herself in fear?"

Tank's lips twitched in a small smile, and then she took his hand and led him out of Sam's room and into theirs.

"Get some dry clothes on and then we can talk." Reaper rolled his eyes, but did as he was told. Tank took a seat on the foot of their bed and watched as he changed out of his partially-soaked gym shorts into a pair of cotton pajama pants, drying off the rest of the way as he went. When he finally turned to her, decent again, Tank stared up at him with some slight trepidation.

"What's up?" he asked, putting his hands on his hips.

Tank stared up at him for a second. Then she took a deep breath and told him.

"I'm pregnant."

There was a tangible pause, during which Reaper's hands slid off of his hips to fall limply against his muscular thighs, staring openly at his wife. Then, after a few seconds, he spun away from her abruptly, startling her, slapping his face a few times. Then Tank watched as he began to pace the room, running his hands through his hair over and over.

"B-But how?" he questioned quietly. Tank watched wryly as he slapped himself a couple more times, still stammering on occasion. Then, finally, she got to her feet, intercepted him, and took his hands in her own.

"I think you know exactly how this came to be," she quipped with some amusement. Then she kissed him passionately, deciding to remind him exactly how they had created this new life.

Later, they sat on the floor, wrapped in a blanket. Reaper was leaning against the foot of their bed and Tank was seated between his legs, leaning against his chest. His arms were wrapped around her naked waist, feeling the raised scars, evidence of her torture on that mission in Siberia so long ago.

"I almost can't believe it," he whispered, his breath warm against her bare shoulder. "We're gonna be _parents_..."

Tank grinned and craned her head back over her shoulder to briefly capture his lips with hers. "Believe it, hon. You've only got about seven months 'til she gets here."

"Seven...?" His eyes were wide, and he cast his gaze down to her belly. Tank smiled gently, moving the blanket off of her so that her stomach was exposed to sight. It was still flat, but she could now sense the new life that was growing inside of her.

"Come here," she commanded, turning around in Reaper's grasp.

He looked at her questioningly. She sighed and reached up to place her hand on the back of his neck. He relaxed understandingly, closing his eyes. Then she gently guided his head down to press his ear against her lower belly. They were silent for a moment but for the sound of their breathing.

"Is that...?" he whispered at last. Tank watched him in silence as he paused again, listening. "Is that its heartbeat?"

Tank smiled at the pure wonder in her husband's voice, and gently stroked Reaper's sweat-damp hair while she hummed an affirmative reply.

As Reaper slid his arms around her again, content to stay there and listen to their baby's heartbeat, Tank found, for the second time that day, that she couldn't hold back her broad grin or her tears of joy.

All her prayers had been answered.

_Thank God._

* * *

_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own Doom. I only own Tank, now, and the baby. I OWN YOUR BABIES!_

_The only thing I have to say about the delay, this time, is that I've been procrastinating. The next chapter, the epilogue, is the last chapter of this story. I've been putting it off as long as I could, but I think the time's come to finally bring this big baby to a close. Sigh. At least for now. I had some ideas for a sequel, but they've flown the coop for the time being, so I don't think there'll be another, at least not for some time._

_I'm sorry for the delay!_

_Hope y'all liked the scene in here (which one you liked is up to you), and I hope you'll tell me what you liked about them._

_As you can see, I've got several sequel crossover possibilities lined out in this story. Superman, Star Trek 2009 (of course!), Assassin's Creed… Ah, so many ideas, so little patience._

_Thank you to __**powergirl24**__ and __**Crye 4 Me**__ for reviewing chapter 43! You two are awesome. To powergirl24: This is going to sound bad, but I'm glad you felt sad at the end. That means that I got the reaction I was aiming for. If it's any consolation, I almost cried when I wrote it, too. And to Crye 4 Me: No, you don't have to sing anymore, and yes, Reaper DOES have his mind on just about one thing… as you can see in this chapter. ;-}_

_Epilogue should be posted 10-18-10._

_-__**P**__ortrait of a __**S**__cribe_


	45. 2047 AD Barrow Alaska 1000 Hours

_**Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
**__**By Portrait of a Scribe**_

"_Sweet moment so tender, that flees with our pleasure,/ To Cupid now render his full flowing measure./ Let life be flowering bloom while it may,/ Time, overpowering, soon claims his day./ Let us sing then! Let bells ring, then!/ Days of youth are happy and free./ Happiness lost cannot ever return,/ No, no, never return!"  
__-Jean Baptiste de Lully, "Bel Tempo Che Vola"_

__

**Epilogue.**

* * *

_**2046 A.D. - ? - ? hours**_

_Reaper was dead silent. Tank was dead silent. So was the rest of the squad, for that matter._

_It had all started out innocently enough. They had gone on leave for the week, and Tank had suggested that they start things out with a movie she had found that looked like it was good, if a chick-flick. Reaper had agreed with some feigned reluctance, though he was simply happy to spend time with his wife, and the rest of them, having had little better to do since it wasn't nighttime and the bars weren't open, yet, decided to humor Tank and sit down with them._

_The movie was an old one from the early 2000s, called Sweet November, starring Charlize Theron and Keanu Reaves. Tank had seen a few scenes of it when she was a child, and she had remembered it as a good, if dramatic, movie._

_However, by the time that the ending scene had rolled around, Reaper had walked out of the room while Tank stared, transfixed and horrified, as Theron's character, Sara Deever, had tied her scarf in a blindfold around Reeves' character, Nelson Moss' eyes and then walked away for a tearful goodbye. For a long time, there was utter silence in the room- you could've heard a pin drop. Then Tank wordlessly shut off the movie, got up, and went to leave the room. Now, at the door, she paused, her hand on the doorframe, and spoken over her shoulder to the rest of the team without even turning her head._

"_Guys… I'm sorry," she said softly, and then she left the rec room and headed down the hall to the kitchen, where she could see Reaper leaning against the counter._

_Indeed, he was leaning heavily against the counter next to the sink, his knuckles white where he was clutching the edge of the surface, but his breathing was steady. Tank stared at him for a long moment. Then she came up to him and wormed her way between him and the counter until she was trapped within the circle of his arms, staring up into his hazel eyes._

_What could she say to the pain she saw there? The movie had paralleled their situation to a haunting degree, so much so that it had chilled Tank's blood. Would there ever come a time when she was so close to death that she pushed her husband away? Would there ever come a time when she could no longer stand to have her loved ones around her, for the fear that they would remember her as a withering cripple? She could see her thoughts echoed in Reaper's eyes, and as she looked up at him, she knew that she would never do that to them._

_She would never have the strength or weakness to do that to them._

_So, instead of saying anything, Tank simply reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck with a carefully-measured breath, blinking dry eyes and simply feeling tired. It took a few minutes, but Reaper eventually returned the embrace, his grip firm but not uncomfortably tight._

_They stood there like that for a long, long time, but neither of them shed any tears. They had done that so many times that it seemed pointless at the moment._

"_I love you, John," Tank whispered at length. Reaper did not respond for a long moment, until he finally squeezed her and buried his nose in her hair._

"_I love you, too, Amanda."_

_Because what else was there to say?_

* * *

_**2047 A.D. - Barrow, Alaska - 1000 hours**_

_CRASH!_

Reaper and Sam came running into the kitchen, alarm bare on their faces, to see Tank's shell-shocked expression as she clutched the edge of the counter. The shards of what had been her favorite coffee mug lay scattered at her feet.

Reaper rushed to his wife, who was six months pregnant, unmindful of the ceramic that crunched beneath the soles of his boots, and grabbed her shoulders, his eyes scanning her up and down. Tank looked up at him, her own eyes wide.

"What happened?" he demanded. Tank blinked, and finally seemed to notice the shattered mug. She absently laid a hand upon her belly, swollen from her pregnancy.

"She kicked," Tank whispered, her eyes still wide. "She kicked, John. It startled me so bad I dropped my cup..."

She trailed off, and then frowned when the realization hit her of what she was seeing. "That was my favorite mug, too..."

Reaper just gazed at her in awe and consternation, until she suddenly jerked with a gasp. Her sight traveled to her belly again.

"Mercy, she's active today," she breathed. Reaper followed her gaze, his own eyes wide and wondering. It only took a second for him to shift his hand from her shoulder to her belly. Sam's hand soon joined Reaper's after the blond woman crossed the ceramic-riddled floor to them.

Three gasps of surprise echoed into the room a second later when the baby kicked again.

"My God," Reaper whispered, placing his other hand on Tank's belly. Her flesh was firm underneath the thin layer of fat that she had put on. "This is almost surreal."

"Tell me about it," Tank groused dryly. "And _I'm_ the one carrying her."

Reaper was about to reply when the phone suddenly started ringing. Sighing, he moved to pick it up while Tank and Sam conversed quietly about the new developments. Tank kept one eye on her husband, watching his expression. She quieted when she saw him blink.

"Duke?" he queried, and Sam silenced herself, also, the attention of both women rapt upon Reaper's face. They could hear Duke's voice from the receiver.

"_Reaps, you gotta get outta there!_" Duke was exclaiming. Reaper frowned.

"What? Why?" he inquired. "What's going on?"

"_They know you're alive,_" Duke said. His voice was grim. "_They tracked you down somehow, and they know that you're superhuman. They're heading your way right now._"

Tank's heart pounded in her breast. "How long until they get here?"

Reaper repeated the question into the phone.

"_Midnight at the latest._"

"Shit!" Reaper swore softly, and glanced at the clock. "Duke, we gotta go. We'll try to call you when we've gotten settled."

"_Right,_" Duke stated. "_Take care, Reaper. Neither me or the Kid want to hear that you've gotten captured or killed._"

"Don't worry about us, Duke," Reaper said. "Bye."

"_Bye._"

And, just like that, the conversation ended, as though their world hadn't just been turned upside-down. Reaper hung up the phone and immediately dashed off for their bedrooms. Tank and Sam followed him, granted at a slower pace.

The next few minutes were spent packing up what few items of clothing that they had accumulated into a pair of seabags. Tank and Reaper packed their equipment from their Marine days at the bottom of their bag, and then each of them packed a spare set of clothes. At the last moment, Tank shoved her bunny slippers and fleece blanket onto the top of the pile. Then Reaper stuck in a blanket and a few pairs of warm pajama pants and shirts.

Five minutes after they got the call, Tank rushed as quickly as she could out to the kitchen, filling water bottles, gathering a little food, and accumulating other supplies to pack into a small bag that would fit into her and Reaper's seabag. Reaper and Sam joined her a few seconds later, and Tank packed up the supplies.

They donned their cold-weather gear and left the house for the last time a total of ten minutes after Duke's warning.

Tank stopped at their neighbors' house to tell them something. She basically mentioned that the three of them had been called back home due to a family emergency, and that they weren't sure when they would be back. She asked them to take care of the house until she, Reaper, and Sam could come back.

Two minutes later, they were on their way out of Barrow, headed for the area where they had first discovered their abilities months beforehand.

"Where will we go?" Sam asked as she and Reaper ran. Tank looked over at her sister-in-law from where she was cradled in Reaper's arms.

"I don't know," she admitted. "Maybe we should head north, crest the top of the world, and head toward Russia."

"There's an idea," Reaper muttered. "Go back to that place where you were tortured."

"John!" Tank scolded softly. "Not that place! And certainly not at this stage in the game. Let's go someplace a little more populated, this time. Blend into the crowds."

"St. Petersburg?" suggested Sam. Tank shrugged.

"I was thinking maybe someplace in Italy," she replied. "Tuscany, perhaps."

"Ooh, that sounds nice," Sam said. "But won't we get caught again?"

"It's likely that we'll be found wherever we go," Reaper deadpanned. His voice held such certainty that the two women were silenced. "We can't exactly escape UAC."

Soon enough, they reached a safe place, and Reaper handed his seabag to Sam to carry while he readjusted his hold on Tank. Then he and his sister lifted off, flying low over the ground. They headed east for a number of miles until they were sure they wouldn't be spotted by anybody in Barrow.

Then they turned northward.

Tank sighed quietly and turned to bury her nose in Reaper's neck as the arctic winds whipped around them. She only looked back once at the place where they had made their home. She was going to miss it.

_It's only been a little under a year since the incident. How long are we going to have to run?_ she wondered.

The only answer she got was that of the whistling wind.

* * *

**_Disclaimer:_**_ I don't own Doom. I only own Tank... and her baby. :)_

_And so the end... for now. Then again, I always say that, but at the moment, I really don't have any ideas for the sequel. I'd originally done a Superman-veined one, but that one ran into a dead end. So I guess I'll just have to leave it up to your imaginations what happens next._

_I probably will continue this, someday when I get back into the swing of things as far as Doom goes. As far as plot ideas, I actually have the most pertaining to a Star Trek 2009 crossover... like everyone else out there does, lol. Who knows what'll come out of my warped brain next?_

_Thank you to everybody who reviewed the last chapter! **Crye 4 Me**, **powergirl24**, **Kakashi-luver**, and **HellgirlAngel**, you guys are awesome! I'm glad that you all loved the last chapter so much. And yes, Reaper is just about the happiest person on the face of the planet. :) Or, he was until Duke's most recent phone call... Damn UAC. Grrr._

_Until the next time!_

_-**P**ortrait of a **S**cribe_


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